THE   VOICE   IN   THE   DESERT 


OTHER    BOOKS    BY 
PAULINE    BRADFORD    MACKIE 


Ye  Lyttle  Salem  Maide,  Mademoiselle  de  Berny 
The  Waskinytonians 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

BY  PAULINE   BRADFORD   MACKIE 

[Mr*.  Herbert  WLuller  Hopkins] 


ALDI 


New  York:  McCLURE,  PHILLIPS  AND  COMPANY 
MCMIII 


COPYRIGHT,  1903.  BY 
McCLURE,  PHILLIPS  A  CO. 


Published,  March,  1903,  R 


TO  HERBERT,  IN 
MEMORY  OF  OUR 
DAYS  ON  THE  DESERT 


2227879 


THE  VOICE   IN   THE   DESERT 


CHAPTER   I 

IT  was  twilight  on  the  desert.  The  mountains  which 
had  crouched  dull  and  vague  at  noon  gained  in 
magnificence  and  height  as  the  shadows  deepened. 
Great  clefts  and  towering  edges  appeared,  purple  in 
the  depths,  rose  on  the  peaks.  The  desert  stretched 
away  level  to  the  horizon  and  there  caught  some  re- 
flection of  the  glowing  west.  It  was  like  a  strange 
lifeless  sea  on  which  the  light  lay,  but  did  not  pene- 
trate. The  sky  at  the  zenith  was  still  bright  blue,  but 
it  no  longer  looked  hot.  Coolness  had  come  with  the 
setting  of  the  sun.  The  desert  air,  wonderful,  dry, 
life-giving,  swayed  the  palms  and  pepper  trees  that 
bordered  the  plaza  of  the  little  town  of  Sahuaro;  it 
stirred  the  road  into  miniature  sand-whirls  and  blew 
soft  into  the  faces  of  the  people  who  were  waiting  for 
the  train.  The  depot,  set  in  the  centre  of  the  plaza, 
looked  like  an  old  Louisiana  home.  The  second  story 
was  used  as  an  hotel,  and  had  a  balcony  very  gay  with 
flower-boxes. 

Twice  a  day  the  great  Overland  swept  by  the  town, 
stopping  only  long  enough  to  afford  its  passengers 
breakfast  and  supper. 

A  short  time  before  the  train  was  due  there  came 
down  the  road  a  pretty  and  charming  woman  between 

[1] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

two  boys.  She  held  a  hand  of  each  and  listened  with  a 
smile  to  what  the  older  boy  was  saying.  All  three 
were  bare-headed.  The  boys'  blond  hair  was  bleached 
to  tow-colour,  and  already  at  their  blue  eyes  showed 
the  crow's-feet  that  comes  from  living  in  a  land  of  sun- 
shine. 

Hay  don,  the  station-master,  gave  the  lady  his  com- 
fortable armchair  when  she  came  up  on  the  platform. 
He  was  a  Southerner,  and  his  traditional  hospitality  of 
nature  made  him  feel  himself  the  host  of  these  occa- 
sions. 

"  Reckon  you're  later  than  common  this  evening, 
Mis'  Lispenard,"  he  remarked. 

She  acknowledged  his  greeting  with  a  smile  as  she 
sank  into  the  chair.  "  Run  along  and  play,  chicks," 
she  told  the  children.  She  gave  the  youngest  a  gentle 
push.  "  Go  along  with  Jim,  Tiggy.  Mamma  doesn't 
want  you  hanging  on  her  all  the  time." 

The  station-master  lingered,  looking  out  to  the 
desert  as  a  captain  looks  to  sea.  "  Mighty  calm  for 
this  season  of  the  year,"  he  said,  "  not  much  wind." 
He  moved  away,  a  lank  figure  of  a  man,  fine-featured 
but  not  forceful,  a  kind  of  gentleman  gone  to  seed, 
most  at  ease  in  the  society  of  boys  and  his  inferiors  in 
birth. 

It  was  the  friendly  hour  of  day  in  Sahuaro,  and, 
left  alone,  Mrs.  Lispenard  gave  herself  up  to  its  en- 
joyment. The  very  greenness  of  the  plaza  had  a  spir- 


CHAPTER    ONE 

itual  effect  upon  her ;  she  liked  the  stir  of  life  that  the 
strolling  people  gave ;  the  tinkle  of  a  Mexican's  man- 
dolin ;  the  pink  afterglow  of  the  sky  seen  through  the 
spiked  leaves  of  the  bordering  palms ;  the  glimpse  of 
blanketed  Indians  outside  with  baskets  and  pottery  to 
sell  to  the  incoming  passengers.  She  nodded  an 
amused  good-evening  to  the  telegraph  operator,  who 
leant  out  of  his  window  talking  to  his  girl,  and  smiled 
at  a  young  ranchman  and  his  wife  who  had  a  pail  of 
new  milk  for  sale  at  five  cents  a  dipperful.  Their 
baby  was  in  its  buggy.  They  were  parishioners  of  her 
husband's,  and  she  had  been  the  baby's  godmother 
when  it  was  baptised.  Near  them  was  the  old  Mexican 
woman  with  her  basket  of  hot  tamales.  Now  and  then 
she  clucked  to  the  baby  and  dangled  her  rosary  in  its 
face.  The  steam  came  through  the  white  cotton  cloth 
laid  neatly  over  the  tamales. 

Two  cowboys  clattered  down  the  stairs  from  the 
hotel  dining  room,  and  taking  chairs  at  a  respectful 
distance  from  Mrs.  Lispenard  tilted  them  back  against 
the  wall  and  lit  long  black  cigars. 

Thus  she  continued  to  sit  aloof,  although  knowing 
herself  to  be  most  welcome,  reserved,  yet  conscious  that 
her  personality  expressed  a  gracious,  feminine  desire 
to  please.  Her  brown  hair  was  brought  up  high  on  her 
head  in  a  loose  twist;  her  skin  was  not  as  fair  as  it 
should  be  for  her  eyes,  but  she  had  a  rich  and  glowing 
colour  and  a  handsome  throat  left  bare  by  a  black 

[3] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

lace  scarf  crossed  like  a  kerchief  over  her  breast  and 
fastened  with  a  crimson  rose.  Her  calico  dress,  made 
in  a  fashion  of  several  years  ago  and  received  in  a  mis- 
sionary-box, was  freshly  laundered  and  faded  to  a 
lavender.  She  kept  her  feet  drawn  in  beneath  the 
flounce.  Her  shoes  were  not  only  cracked,  but  the 
leather  was  worn  to  a  distasteful  brown. 

The  great  Overland  came  rushing  into  the  little 
station  like  a  black  monster,  puffing  and  steaming, 
its  red  eye  blazing.  Far  more  congruous  with  the  land- 
scape would  have  been  a  caravan  of  camels  approach- 
ing from  out  the  mysterious  East.  Where  all  had  been 
a  leisurely  expectancy  now  all  was  bustle  and  confu- 
sion. The  supper-bell  rung  from  the  balcony  above 
rose  superior  to  all  other  sounds.  The  passengers  came 
hurrying  out ;  those  who  had  dined  on  the  train  to 
stroll  about  the  plaza  for  fresh  air  and  to  bargain 
with  the  Indians.  But  the  majority  were  frankly  con- 
cerned over  something  to  eat,  and  those  who  did  not 
go  upstairs  took  draughts  of  the  new  milk  and  bought 
tamales  of  the  old  woman,  who  sold  them  six  for  a 
quarter.  The  big  engine  was  uncoupled  and  driven  up 
to  the  red-painted  water-tank  to  have  its  boiler 
filled. 

Mrs.  Lispenard  had  drawn  her  chair  back  and  sat 
unnoticed.  She  watched  the  different  faces  eagerly. 
The  Pullman  conductor  took  off  his  cap  to  her  as  he 
hurried  down  from  supper. 

[4] 


CHAPTER    ONE 

All  too  soon  the  excitement  of  the  day  was  past,  and 
the  Overland  swept  on  from  out  the  warmly  pulsating 
little  town  into  the  desolate  waste  of  sand,  of  cacti,  of 
barren  mountain. 

The  afterglow  had  gone  from  the  sky  and  the 
mountain  peaks,  and  wildness  encroached  upon  the 
green  little  plaza.  A  note  of  dreariness  was  creeping 
into  the  landscape.  It  seemed  to  find  some  faint  re- 
flection in  the  lady's  face.  She  sighed  and  brushed 
back  a  straying  curl  of  her  soft  hair.  For  fifteen 
years  she  had  watched  the  train  come  and  go,  and  never 
once  had  she  welcomed  a  friend.  How  many  more 
times  was  she  doomed  to  feel  afresh  that  sting  of  hu- 
miliation and  disappointment,  the  rebuff  Fate  dealt 
her  romantic  imaginings?  She  was  mortified  at  her 
own  weakness  in  coming.  The  platform  was  now 
deserted  save  for  herself.  The  boys  had  gone  to  the 
drug-store,  which  was  the  post-office  as  well.  It  would 
be  nearly  an  hour  before  the  distribution  of  the  mail 
was  finished. 

While  she  waited  the  moon  rose,  the  orange  moon 
of  the  desert,  gibbous-shaped  at  the  horizon.  It  sent 
a  broad  pathway  of  light  across  the  sands  and  put  a 
silver  sheen  on  the  foothills.  The  note  of  dreariness 
which  had  slipped  into  the  landscape  vanished.  The 
hour  she  sat  there  seemed  neither  long  nor  short  to  her. 
Patience  had  ceased  to  be  a  virtue.  The  lack  of  any 
need  for  haste  in  her  life  destroyed  that. 

[5]  * 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

The  boys  came  back  finally  with  the  mail.  There 
was  only  a  circular  for  their  father. 

"  Just  one  man  got  off  the  train  to-night,"  Jim  in- 
formed her.  "  Haydon  says  he's  taken  a  room  and  Tie 
bets  he's  an  Easterner  come  out  to  look  after  some 
mines.  Anyway,  he  isn't  an  invalid." 

"  Well,  I'm  glad  for  that,"  she  answered. 

The  three  started  slowly  homeward.  The  boys  had 
learned  to  recognise  an  inevitable  change  of  mood  in 
their  mother.  She  always  started  out  like  a  girl  to  a 
party  and  returned  home  with  them  quiet  and  de- 
pressed. 

The  increasing  brilliancy  of  the  rising  moon  seemed 
to  show  the  air  still  full  of  the  sunset  colours.  She 
could  see  the  roofs  of  the  adobe  houses  which,  low  as 
they  were,  yet  showed  above  the  shrub-like  trees.  She 
saw  the  pathetic  spire  of  her  husband's  church,  pa- 
thetic, because  it  was  no  more  effective  in  the  landscape 
than  a  splintered  spar  tossing  at  sea. 

Tiggy's  feet  lagged. 

"  Let  mother  carry  you,  precious,"  said  Mrs.  Lis- 
penard.  She  lifted  him  up  in  her  arms.  She  was  very 
strong  and  she  carried  him  lightly.  Her  pretty  van- 
ity of  appearance  was  gone,  and  she  stepped  along 
firmly  in  her  rusty,  run-over  shoes. 

Tiggy's  thin  fingers  thrust  themselves  under  the  lace 
fichu  and  slipped  around  until  his  arm  fastened  firmly 
about  her  neck.  Then  with  his  head  on  her  shoulder 

[6] 


CHAPTER    ONE 

he  lay  staring  across  at  the  moon.  His  resemblance 
to  his  father  had  never  been  more  apparent  to  her. 

"  Shut  your  eyes,  Tiggy,"  she  said.  "  Haven't  I 
told  you  that  little  boys  shouldn't  look  too  much  at 
the  moon  ?  It  makes  them  luny." 

Jim  gave  an  exuberant  shout.  "  Luny  Tiggy !  " 
he  cried.  He  had  his  mother's  love  of  fun,  and  wel- 
comed eagerly  the  least  approach  to  a  jest. 

Someone  was  coming  up  the  sidewalk  back  of 
them. 

"  Want  to  know  who  that  is  ?  "  said  Jim.  "  I  can 
tell  you.  It's  the  man  who  stayed  over  here.  I  know 
because  he  steps  so  quick.  Us  Sahuaro  people  take  it 
more  easy." 

"  You  know  an  awful  lot,  don't  you?"  said  Tiggy 
calmly. 

"  Where  did  you  learn  to  be  so  observing,  Jim, 
dear?  "  asked  his  mother. 

"  Oh,  I  learned  all  right,"  he  answered  mysteri- 
ously. "  I  can  walk  along  the  streets  with  my  eyes 
closed  and  tell  just  who  it  is  passes  me.  Cozzens  says 
he  can  tell  an  enemy  coming  up  behind  and  can  draw  a 
bead  on  him  without  even  looking  back  over  his 
shoulder." 

"  If  you  call  Mr.  Cozzens,  Cozzens  again,  I  shall 
punish  you,"  said  his  mother. 

Jim  frowned  and  kicked  at  a  tuft  of  the  coarse 
grass  growing  up  between  the  planks  of  the  side- 

[7] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

walk.  He  felt  he  was  too  old  to  be  reproved  by  his 
mother  as  though  he  were  Tiggy. 

"  I  suppose  the  stranger's  come  out  to  see  the 
sights  of  this  wonderful  town  as  well  as  his  mining 
property,"  she  said,  teasing  him. 

She  glanced  back  over  her  shoulder.  Of  whom  did 
the  man  approaching  remind  her?  What  could  there 
be  familiar  to  her  in  the  tall  figure?  Yet  she  felt  her 
heart  beating  fast. 

"  I  don't  care  what  you  say,"  Jim  was  saying,  loyal 
to  his  birthplace,  which  he  had  never  yet  left.  "  I 
like  Sahuaro  better  than  any  other  town  in  the 
world." 

She  flung  back  her  head  and  laughed,  her  pretty 
teasing  laugh.  She  could  coquet  with  Jim  in  lieu  of 
anyone  else,  but  now  her  laughter  was  intended  for  the 
ears  of  the  approaching  stranger. 

About  to  pass,  he  turned,  startled,  and  looked  at 
her.  Their  eyes  met.  Her  laughter  died  on  her  lips. 
They  stood  staring  in  amazement  at  each  other,  and 
the  little  lads,  reflecting  their  mother's  surprise,  were 
silent,  too.  Tiggy  raised  himself  in  her  arms,  half- 
smiling,  but  Jim  was  a  trifle  aggressive.  Mrs.  Lis- 
penard  was  first  to  break  the  silence,  and  her  voice 
shook.  "  Why,  Jarvey,"  she  cried ;  "  why,  Jarvis 
Trent."  Her  eyes  shone  with  eager  desire  to  be  re- 
membered. "  Don't  you  remember  me  ?  "  they  queried 
mutely,  "me,  Adele?" 

[8] 


CHAPTER    ONE 

"  Adele,"  he  said  at  last,  hesitatingly. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  almost  with  a  sob,  so  great 
was  her  relief.  There  had  been  a  moment  of  tragic 
suspense  when  she  feared  he  would  not  know  her.  And 
if  Jarvis  Trent  did  not  recognise  her  the  desert  must, 
indeed,  have  robbed  her  of  all  her  old  charm  and 
beauty ! 

"  You  were  the  last  person  in  the  world  I  expected 
to  see  here,"  he  said  slowly,  "  although  I  knew  you 
went  West  when  you  married,  and  Lispenard  wrote 
once  or  twice  and  then  dropped  the  correspondence. 
You  are  not  changed." 

"  But  you  are,  Jarvey,"  she  said  soberly ;  "  I  can  see 
even  now  you  are  different.  Do  you  believe  in  pre- 
monitions? I  must  have  felt  it  was  you.  I  could  not 
have  known  just  by  your  figure  and  walk,  could  I? 
You  never  heard  from  us  because  we  got  lost  in  the 
desert.  We  have  been  fifteen  years  in  this  forlorn 
town.  Think  of  it." 

"  Sahuaro  has  doubled  in  population  in  the  last  ten 
years,"  put  in  Jim. 

"  Jim  and  I  love  Sahuaro,"  added  Tiggy. 

"  Poor  babies,  you  see  how  provincial  they  are,"  she 
said,  smiling.  "  How  glad  Theodore  will  be  to  see 
you.  And  I  was  deploring  that  I  had  no  letter  for 
him !  We  live  right  on  this  street.  Jim,  dear,  this  is 
father's  friend,  Mr.  Trent." 

"  Well,    I'm    taken    back,    you    bet,"    said    Jim. 

[9] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

"  There  Haydon  and  I  were  speculating  on  what  you 
might  be,  and  concluded  you  were  a  mine  owner." 

"  I'm  not  as  important  as  that,  Jim,"  Trent  an- 
swered, shaking  hands  with  the  boy  "  He  looks  like 
your  family,  your  father,  I  think,"  he  added  to  Mrs. 
Lispenard. 

She  was  pleased.     "  I  think  so,"  she  assented. 

"  Let  me  carry  the  little  fellow  for  you,"  he  said. 

She  relinquished  Tiggy  with  a  sigh  of  relief.  She 
was  not  in  the  least  tired,  but  it  suited  her  to  be  fem- 
inine and  appealing. 

"  What's  the  reason  you  can't  walk,  young  man  ?  " 
asked  Trent,  looking  down  upon  the  boy  transferred 
to  his  arms. 

Tiggy  put  up  his  hand  and  drew  it  gently  down  the 
cheek  of  this  new  friend.  "  Mamma  likes  to  carry 
me,"  he  answered. 

"  She  does,  does  she?  "  Trent  rejoined.  "Well, 
you  just  trot  on  ahead  there  with  your  brother."  He 
put  the  child  down  on  his  feet.  "  I  might  know  how 
you  would  be  with  your  children,  Adele,"  he  added, 
looking  at  her  affectionately ;  "  slap  them  one  minute 
and  spoil  them  the  next,  as  you  did  your  lovers." 

"  Was  I  as  bad  as  that  ?  "  she  answered. 

The  two  boys  went  on  ahead. 

She  put  a  detaining  hand  on  his  arm.  "  Think  of 
it,  Jarvey,"  she  cried ;  "  yours  is  the  first  face  of  an 
old  friend  I've  seen  in  fifteen  years.  The  first  face 
[101 


CHAPTER    ONE 

from  home  in  fifteen  years!  Don't  you  notice  the 
smell  of  the  desert  ?  It  has  been  in  my  nostrils  all  this 
time.  It  is  in  my  hair,  in  my  clothes,  in  my  handker- 
chief even."  She  waved  it  as  she  spoke  to  the  two 
little  lads,  who  were  looking  back.  "  Run  on,  chicks ; 
mother's  coming.  Don't  tell  father  there  is  anyone 
with  us.  We'll  surprise  him." 

"  Is  this  Lispenard's  church  we  are  passing?  "  asked 
Trent.  He  was  distressed  by  her  tears,  and  for  her 
sake  wished  to  change  the  subject.  Fifteen  years  in 
the  desert !  All  those  years  without  seeing  a  face  from 
home !  And  yet  he  thought  with  some  sadness  that  he 
had  never  considered  the  city  he  lived  in  his  home  in 
the  sense  it  once  was  before  she  married  and  went 
away. 

"  Oh,  no,"  she  answered ;  "Theodore's  is  only  a  little 
chapel.  This  is  one  of  the  landmarks  of  a  past  civil- 
isation. It  is  an  old  Roman  Catholic  mission.  See 
how  broken  it  is."  She  stopped  to  point  out  to  him 
the  frail  balconies  distinct  in  the  moonlight.  "  The 
old  floor  is  quite  gone,  but  there  are  still  some  wonder- 
ful paintings  on  the  wall,  and  in  the  tower  are  the 
bronze  bells  which  still  hold  their  sweet  tones." 

He  was  looking  down  at  her  in  an  abstracted  way, 
almost  as  if  he  did  not  see  her. 

"  It  is  a  quaint  and  melancholy  place,"  she  said,  as 
they  went  on.  "  We  must  show  it  to  you  in  the  day- 
time. Here  is  where  we  live,  right  next  to  it." 

[11] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

She  opened  the  gate  of  a  low  adobe  house  set  well 
back  from  the  street  in  the  shadow  of  the  old  mission. 

"  I  don't  notice  any  smell  of  the  desert,"  Trent  said, 
"  unless  it's  this  heavy  fragrance." 

"  You  never  had  any  imagination,  Jarvey,"  she  re- 
torted. "  You  have  to  have  something  as  powerful  as 
the  magnolia.  But  I'll  forgive  you  anything,  even 
your  lack  of  sympathy.  I'm  so  glad  to  see  you.  And 
how  delighted  Theodore  will  be." 

"  Hurry  up,"  cried  Jim,  "  we  can't  wait  forever. 
I'm  going  to  open  the  door  now."  He  burst  in  with 
a  whoop,  Tiggy  a  close  second,  and  Trent,  as  much 
touched  as  he  was  amused  and  embarrassed,  followed 
Mrs.  Lispenard  into  the  house. 


CHAPTER  II 

LSPENARD  was  unchanged;  Trent  saw  that 
at  once.  It  was  the  same  youthful,  almost 
boyish  figure  that  rose  from  behind  the  table 
and  came  forward,  the  blond  hair  slightly  rumpled  as 
of  old,  the  remembered  smile  touched  now  by  puzzle- 
ment. The  distancing  fifteen  years,  the  hurt  that 
he  had  let  their  correspondence  languish,  ceased  to 
exist,  and  Trent  felt  his  heart  leap  as  it  had  when  he 
met  Adele. 

"  He  doesn't  know  who  it  is,"  she  cried.  "  Why, 
Theodore,  where  are  your  eyes?  It's  Jarvis  Trent." 

"  Dear  old  fellow,"  cried  Lispenard,  shaking  him  by 
both  hands,  "  can  you  ever  forgive  me?  I  never  was 
more  surprised  in  my  life." 

"  Nor  I,"  answered  his  friend ;  "  I  remembered  your 
wife's  laugh." 

She  laughed  again  and  blushed,  standing  with  an 
arm  about  each  of  her  boys. 

"  I  believe  you've  grown  younger,"  Trent  con- 
tinued, laying  his  hand  on  his  friend's  shoulder,  "  and 
I  can't  yet  realise  the  fact  that  these  two  splendid 
boys  are  yours." 

"  Come  and  sit  down  by  the  fire,"  Mrs.  Lispenard 
said,  pushing  up  a  big  chair.  "  Now,  chicks,  mother 
[13] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

will  give  you  just  five  minutes  to  get  into  bed.  You 
can  say  good-night  to-morrow  morning.  Excuse  me 
a  minute,  won't  you,  Jarvey?  I'm  going  out  to  get 
you  something  to  eat." 

"  Thank  you,"  he  answered,  "  I  had  supper  at  the 
depot.  I  don't  know  that  I  ever  saw  a  place  before 
which  combined  both  station  and  hotel.  I've  taken  a 
room  there." 

"You'll  enjoy  Hay  don,"  said  Lispenard ;  "  he's 
what  might  be  called  a  motherly  soul.  Well,  if  you're 
not  hungry  we  must  have  a  little  wine  for  the  stom- 
ach's sake,  anyway." 

"  I'm  not  sure  that  I  want  to  get  very  near  the  fire," 
Trent  said,  taking  the  chair  Mrs.  Lispenard  had 
dragged  forward  for  him.  "  It  seems  warm  to  me." 

"  I  know,  but  you'd  find  it  chilly  without  a  fire  in 
these  adobe  houses.  Still,  my  lamp  often  gives  heat 
enough,  but  we  think  a  fire  is  cheerful,"  his  host  re- 
joined. "  Will  you  try  a  pipe?  "  He  stood  drawing 
a  cleaner  through  the  stem  of  the  pipe  he  was  about 
to  offer  him.  The  lamp-light  shone  on  his  scholarly 
white  hands  and  his  worn  gray  study-coat.  "  I  shall 
never  forget  when  we  were  first  married  that  Mrs. 
Lispenard  undertook  to  scrub  my  pipes  in  soap  and 
water.  I  don't  believe  she  got  the  nicotine  off  her 
fingers  for  weeks,  and  I  am  sure  she's  never  forgiven 
me." 

Trent  laughed.  "  To  think  of  my  dropping  down 
[14] 


CHAPTER   TWO 

upon  you  like  this.  I  never  heard  of  such  luck."  He 
moved  his  chair  a  little  further  from  the  fire  and  set 
rocking  a  low  chair  near  by.  A  gold  thimble  rolled  to 
the  floor  from  out  the  sewing-basket  which  had  been 
left  in  the  seat.  He  stooped  and  picked  it  up.  What 
was  the  vague  association  it  awakened  in  him?  He 
turned  it  over  in  his  palm  and  read  the  initials  and 
the  date.  He  had  once  given  it  to  Adele.  Suddenly 
he  looked  up  and  met  the  gaze  of  a  stranger  across 
the  room.  He  was  amazed  that  he  had  not  seen  it  be- 
fore— that  young  face,  oval  in  shape  and  pale,  the 
hair  almost  like  an  aureole,  beyond  the  green  globe 
of  the  lamp.  His  own  eyes  encountered  briefly  a 
watchful  regard.  Had  he  seen  only  the  face  he  might 
even  have  taken  it  to  be  that  of  a  youth — one's  ideal 
poet  or  painter  in  his  early  promise. 

Lispenard  looked  up  puzzled,  divining  the  changed 
atmosphere,  noting  Trent's  surprise.  He  followed 
his  gaze  across  the  room,  and  his  own  face  flushed. 

"  Can  you  ever  forgive  me,  Miss  Armes  ? "  he 
cried.  "  I  was  so  carried  away  with  seeing  my  friend 
that  I  forgot  my  manners." 

Trent  thought  her  extremely  gentle  and  sweet  as 
she  shook  hands  with  him.  Her  white  dress,  with  its 
elbow  sleeves,  was  very  youthful,  its  sole  ornament 
being  a  heavy  gold  army  buckle  at  her  waist ;  and  he 
noticed  an  officer's  cape  flung  carelessly  on  the  lounge 
where  she  had  been  sitting.  "  I  was  only  wishing  I 
[15] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

might  slip  out  of  the  room  without  being  seen,"  she 
told  him.  "  Such  an  old  friend  made  me  feel  de  trop. 
You  see,  I  placed  you  at  once  when  I  heard  your  name. 
Out  here  in  the  desert  we  even  learn  to  know  our 
friends'  friends." 

He  turned  from  her  to  look  affectionately  at  Lis- 
penard.  "  Then  you  sometimes  thought  of  me  even 
if  you  never  wrote,  old  fellow." 

"  I'll  explain  why  I  never  wrote,"  he  answered. 
"  Firstly,"  counting  off  on  his  fingers,  "  I  believe  in 
the  immortality  of  the  soul ;  secondly,  in  that  celestial 
life  we  shall  have  ample  time  for  converse  with  those 
friends  whose  paths  here  diverged  from  ours ;  thirdly, 
that  this  fine  provision  being  thus  made  we  should  not 
neglect  those  present  by  sending  wistful  outpourings 
on  paper  to  the  absent." 

"  That's  the  most  cold-blooded  excuse  I  ever  heard," 
Trent  retorted ;  "  it's  barely  decent,  but  I  forgive 
you."  He  replaced  the  thimble  in  the  dainty  basket 
which  was  heaped  with  some  white  fabric  in  which  the 
needle  glanced.  It  was  so  characteristic  of  Adele. 
The  buoyancy  of  his  mood  was  gone.  The  reading  of 
their  joined  initials  on  the  little  thimble  induced  a  wist- 
ful strain,  and  the  chilling  impression  of  having  dis- 
covered a  stranger  in  the  room  in  which  he  had  sup- 
posed himself  alone  with  Lispcnard  lingered. 

He  was  conscious,  as  in  their  student  days,  that  Lis- 
penard  was  still  talking. 

[16] 


CHAPTER   TWO 

"  I  tell  you  what  it  is,  Trent,"  with  an  airy  wave  of 
the  pipe,  "  the  desert  imposes  no  limit  to  the  imagina- 
tion, and  so  we  simply  carry  our  neglected  correspond- 
ence over  into  the  next  world." 

Trent  answered  with  a  slight  smile.  The  reaction 
of  his  mood  made  him  physically  depressed,  and  he 
felt  the  strain  of  his  journey  for  the  first  time. 

Mrs.  Lispenard  came  in  from  the  dining  room  car- 
rying a  tray.  The  excitement  rendered  her  more 
charming  than  ever.  The  rose  at  her  breast  had 
slipped  its  fastenings,  and  so  she  had  thrust  it  care- 
lessly into  her  hair;  she  had  put  on  a  ruffled  white 
apron,  which  gave  the  final  touch  of  coquettishness  to 
her  appearance.  Trent  regarded  her  appreciatively; 
love  of  life  was  strong  in  Adele. 

"  I  didn't  see  you,  Yucca,"  she  cried.  "  When  did 
you  come  in?  " 

"  I  have  been  here  some  time,"  Miss  Armes  an- 
swered, piling  up  the  magazines  and  papers  as  she 
spoke.  "  Shan't  I  clear  a  space  for  you  on  the  table  ?  " 

"  Yes,  thank  you."  She  stood  holding  the  tray. 
"  Theodore,  get  another  glass  and  plate  from  the  din- 
ing room,  dear.  Boys,  I'm  ashamed  of  you.  Aren't 
you  in  bed  yet?  " 

A  giggle  was  the  only  answer.  She  looked  at 
Trent,  and  laughed.  "  You  see  that  like  most  mothers 
I  have  eyes  in  the  back  of  my  head.  I  know  when 
they're  up  to  mischief." 

[17] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

"  I  don't  suppose  they  want  to  go  to  bed  at  a 
proper  hour  any  more  than  we  do,"  she  continued,  put- 
ting down  the  tray.  "  Nothing  ever  irritates  me  more 
than  when  at  the  end  of  a  stupid  evening  all  that  re- 
mains is  to  go  to  bed.  It's  the  last  straw."  She  set  the 
dish  of  fruit  from  out  the  laden  tray  on  the  table,  re- 
arranging it  a  little,  so  that  the  green  of  the  grapes 
and  the  orange-red  of  the  pomegranates  should  con- 
trast well  with  the  purple  figs.  "  Please  tell  me  that 
you  never  ate  ripe  figs,  for  I  want  you  to  appreciate 
these  to  the  full.  They  are  delicious." 

"  Never,"  he  answered.  "  I  remember  that  when 
Lispenard  and  I  went  abroad  that  summer  we  had  a 
chance  to  buy  some  ripe  figs.  But  they  were  out  of 
season  and  expensive,  so  we  gave  them  up.  Those 
were  our  student  days,  Miss  Armes,  when  we  were 
poor.  We  went  steerage." 

"  Were !  "  echoed  Lispenard,  coming  back  with  the 
plate  and  glass.  "  Are  you  become  a  Philistine  and 
given  over  to  the  getting  of  riches?  Where  are  your 
treasures  in  heaven  ?  I  begin  to  perceive  a  certain  fat- 
ness in  you.  Ah,  I  must  look  after  the  state  of  your 
soul.  I  shall  write  you  such  a  sermon  on  the  delights 
of  poverty  that  when  you  hear  it  you  will  throw  riches 
to  the  dogs ! 

"  '  Art  tLou  poor,  yet  hast  thou  golden  slumbers? 
Oh,  sweet  content ! ' 

"  You  remember  that  old  poem,  Jarvey? 
[18] 


CHAPTER   TWO 

"  '  Dost  thou  laugh  to  see  how  fools  are  vexed 
To  add  to  golden  numbers,  golden  numbers?  ' 

The  riches  of  poverty !  Being  poor,  it  is  possible  for 
me  to  be  content,  for  to  be  content  is  to  have  desires 
which  can  be  satisfied.  Who  was  that  delightful 
Frenchman  who  said  he  had  obtained  happiness  by  the 
moderation  of  his  desires?  I  wish  a  certain  book,  and 
Fortune  often  favours  me  with  an  excellent  review  of  it 
in  my  newspaper.  It  is  tantalising,  but  stimulating 
to  the  imagination.  I  am  actually  tempted  to  go  ahead 
and  try  to  write  such  a  book  myself  for  the  pleasure  of 
possessing  it.  On  Easter  my  dear  wife  gets  me  a  new 
tie  to  go  with  my  old  suit,  and  I  am  puffed  up  with 
vanity.  And  Sundays  we  have  chicken.  If  we  had 
it  every  day,  Jim  and  Tiggy  would  become  satiated 
and  cease  to  quarrel  over  the  wishbone.  Come  to  din- 
ner Sunday,  and  you  shall  have — 

"  Theodore,"  his  wife  interrupted,  joining  in  the 
laughter,  but  impatient,  ".aren't  you  ever  going  to 
open  that  claret?  " 

"  The  wishbone !  "  he  ended  triumphantly,  holding 
the  bottle  between  his  knees  as  he  drew  out  the  cork. 
"  I  was  reading  the  last  chapter  of  my  book  aloud 
when  you  two  came  in,  and  Miss  Armes  didn't  like  it. 
You'll  have  to  be  victimised,  Trent.  I  want  a  man's 
judgment.  Like  the  ancient  mariner,  I  must  tell  my 
tale.  It's  a  philosophy."  He  filled  up  their  glasses 
and  raised  his  own.  "  Your  health,  old  man !  " 
[19] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

"  I  liked  it,"  Miss  Armes  protested,  "  but  not  for 
the  last  chapter.  It  hadn't  an  air  of  finality.  It  was 
more  like  the  beginning  of  another  book  than  the  end- 
ing of  a  completed  one." 

"  That  is  the  way  of  all  intellectual  life,"  he  re- 
torted. "  One  philosophy  opens  into  another.  It  all 
dovetails,  so  to  speak." 

"  I  side  with  Miss  Armes,"  Trent  said.  "  A  book 
should  be  a  work  of  art,  well  rounded  out,  leaving  the 
reader  satisfied  by  a  sense  of  completion." 

"  You  barely  escaped  being  a  pedant  when  you  were 
young,  and  now  there's  danger  of  your  becoming  too 
judicial,"  said  Lispenard.  "  I  declare  you  have  the 
proportion  of  a  judge,  but  don't  tell  me  I  look  like  a 
minister.  I  don't  wish  to  be  marked  as  the  professional 
good  man." 

His  wife  was  making  two  sandwiches  of  crackers 
spread  with  orange  marmalade.  She  gave  Trent  a 
glance  of  mingled  humour  and  resentment.  "  Ever 
since  my  marriage  I've  had  my  nose  in  a  pot  of  jam  in 
the  desert ! "  She  took  the  crackers  in  to  the  boys, 
whose  room  opened  out  of  the  main  one.  There  was  a 
whispered  consultation,  from  which  she  returned  smil- 
ing, putting  back  a  lock  of  hair  which  had  been  dis- 
turbed by  Tiggy's  ardent  hug.  "  They've  promised 
to  be  good  and  stay  quietly  in  bed,  if  I'll  only  leave  the 
door  open.  I'm  afraid  I  spoil  them,  but  after  all  your 
coming  is  almost  as  much  of  an  event  to  the  children 
[20  ] 


CHAPTER    TWO 

as  to  us.  They  are  planning  great  things  for  your  en- 
tertainment. Don't  you  like  the  figs  ?  " 

"  I'm  afraid  Mr.  Trent  isn't  eating  them  in  the  right 
way,"  put  in  Miss  Armes.  She  leant  forward.  "  May 
I  show  you  ?  "  she  asked,  taking  his  fruit  knife.  "  You 
must  take  off  this  thin  outside  skin,  or  it  will  pucker 
your  mouth.  See,  like  this.  Now  try  it." 

He  finished  peeling  it  and  ate  it  obediently,  but  when 
Adele  would  have  urged  more  of  the  figs  upon  him  he 
refused.  "  I  think  they're  insipid." 

"  They're  delicious,"  she  insisted.  "  I  shall  have 
them  for  breakfast  to-morrow  morning,  with  cream  and 
brown  bread  and  coffee.  You  learn  to  like  them,  as 
you  do  olives,  I  think." 

Lispenard  heaped  more  wood  on  the  fire.  The  large 
room,  with  its  walls  of  adobe  painted  a  delicate  apricot 
tint,  no  longer  seemed  too  warm  to  Trent. 

"  This  is  our  library  and  parlour  and  Theodore's 
study,  too,"  Adele  said.  "  We  have  a  real  old  mission 
fireplace,  you  see,  which  I  bought  out  of  a  Spanish 
home  here  in  town.  Jim  and  I  made  the  chairs  to  go 
with  it  ourselves,  although  the  chair  you're  in  is  a  gen- 
uine antique.  I  will  tell  you  a  secret,  but  you  must 
never,  never  tell.  Theodore's  writing-desk  is  one  of 
the  side-altar  tables  from  the  old  mission  of  Santa  Ines 
next  to  us.  It's  so  littered  over  now  that  you  can't 
see  the  magnificent  grain  of  the  wood." 

"  If  it  were  from  one  of  our  churches  I  might  con- 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

sider  it  put  to  profane  use,  but  as  it  is  we  hold  it  a 
brand  snatched  from  the  burning,"  remarked  Lispen- 
ard.  "  It  is  a  fascinating  place,  this  Santa  Ines 
in  whose  shadow  we  live.  You  could  have  no 
better  guides  than  the  two  boys.  It  has  been  their 
play-house.  Can  you  imagine  greater  riches?  My 
sons  are  princes !  It  is  roofed  with  numerous  domes 
and  half -domes  of  the  Venetian-Byzantine  school,  and 
there  is  still  some  half-obliterated  frescoing  of  angels 
and  evangelists.  And  how  you  will  enjoy  the  painting 
above  the  main  altar!  It  looks  like  an  old  man  with 
red,  puffed-out  cheeks,  blowing  a  column  of  smoke,  but 
it's  really  supposed  to  be  God  sending  down  the  breath 
of  life." 

"  I  am  trying  to  persuade  the  town  to  buy  it,"  said 
Miss  Armes.  "  The  Roman  Catholics  still  own  it,  al- 
though they  have  long  since  abandoned  it,  because  it 
is  so  old.  They  have  another  church  here,  in  the  In- 
dian village,  and  the  old  priest,  through  long  associa- 
tion, is  as  much  of  an  Indian  as  any  of  his  followers. 
You  will  find  that  Sahuaro  is  still  largely  Mexican  and 
Spanish  in  its  traditions,  Mr.  Trent.  I  hope  it  may 
continue  so.  The  very  thought  of  hideous  modern 
buildings  going  up  here  distresses  me." 

Intensely  interested  himsslf  in  the  beautifying  of 
his  own  city,  he  was  struck  by  her  public  spirit.  He 
thought  her  interest  in  architecture  unusual  in  a 
woman.  As  he  looked  at  her  he  saw  that  she  was 


CHAPTER    TWO 

older  than  he  first  thought.  Her  face  had  more  colour 
now  than  when  he  saw  its  pale  oval  beyond  the  green 
globe  of  the  lamp.  Her  eyes  had  lost  their  shadowed 
look  and  were  brighter,  yet  he  was  glad  when  she 
finally  rose  to  go,  for  he  could  not  shake  off  the  chill 
impression  made  upon  him  when  he  had  looked  up  and 
met  her  close  regard  across  the  room.  Her  extreme 
gentleness  and  sweetness  of  manner  showed  to  him 
only  that  she  was  a  very  well-bred  woman.  He  felt 
himself  too  keen  a  judge  of  humanity  to  mistake  them 
for  qualities  of  the  heart.  And  he  distrusted  a  watch- 
ful person.  She  drew  about  her  the  old  army-cape 
which  had  been  lying  on  the  sofa  and  turned  to  say 
good-night  to  him. 

Her  hand  rested  lightly  a  moment  in  his.  "  I  hope 
you  are  going  to  stay  some  time.  You  must  all  come 
over  to  see  me." 

"  Thank  you,"  he  answered.  "  I  shan't  commit  my- 
self by  telling  how  long  I  intended  to  stay,  now  that  I 
have  found  my  friends.  They  might  get  tired  of  me 
and  try  to  make  me  hold  to  my  original  plan  if  they 
knew." 

Lispenard  stood,  hat  in  hand,  to  escort  her  home. 
"  I  will  be  back  in  a  minute,"  he  said. 

"  What  did  I  hear  you  call  her?  "  Trent  asked  his 
hostess  when  they  were  alone. 

"  Yucca.  Isn't  it  a  horrid  name?  "  she  commented 
frankly.  "  Her  father  was  stationed  out  in  Arizona 
[23] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

when  she  was  born,  and  he  named  her  after  a  tree 
which  grows  about  here.  Did  you  think  she  was 
pretty?" 

"  Why,  no,"  he  said.  "  Do  you  ?  I  thought  her 
rather  poetical-looking,  but  colourless." 

She  gave  him  a  strange  look,  which  he  could  not 
fathom.  "  Oh !  you  will  think  her  beautiful  if  you  stay 
here  long  enough."  She  drew  her  low  rocking-chair 
closer  to  the  fire,  and  sat  staring  into  it,  her  chin  on 
her  hand. 

They  were  silent,  like  old  friends,  he  thinking  over 
the  strangeness  of  their  meeting  in  such  a  place  after 
so  many  years.  In  the  adjoining  room  slept  her  two 
children — Adele's  children  !  He  turned  his  head  a  mo- 
ment to  look  at  her.  Life  had  never  seemed  more  mys- 
terious to  him  than  at  this  moment.  The  little  gold 
thimble  he  had  once  given  her,  with  their  initials  en- 
twined and  the  date  on  it,  glinted  on  top  of  the  sewing 
in  her  work-basket.  And  Lispenard !  How  un- 
changed he  was !  He  did  not  even  now  quite  seem  her 
husband,  nor  the  father  of  the  boys.  He  had  none  of 
the  air  of  a  family  man.  He  retained  his  old  bearing 
of  personal  freedom,  the  spiritual  poise  of  a  man  who, 
staff  in  hand,  is  free  to  start  at  a  moment's  notice. 

The  wood  burned  low  in  the  old  mission  fireplace. 

He  noticed  the  iron  hinges  to  the  cupboard  which  was 

built  in  at  one  side.    Behind  the  small  diamond-shaped 

panes  of  thick  glass  he  saw  dimly  several  rows  of  small 

[24] 


CHAPTER    TWO 

volumes,  the  treasures  of  a  bookman.  He  wondered 
if  the  two  heavy  brass  candlesticks  also  came  from  the 
mission  of  Santa  Ines.  They  had  an  appearance  of 
great  age.  It  was  such  a  fireplace  as  this  that  he 
would  have  dreamed  of  for  a  home  of  his  own.  A 
bachelor's  home !  The  thought  was  dreary.  Above 
the  mantel  hung  the  picture  of  the  Two  Princes  in  the 
Tower.  The  blond  hair  of  the  little  lads  reminded 
him  of  Jim  and  Tiggy. 

He  sat  content  in  that  pleasant  room,  steeped  in 
such  an  atmosphere  of  home  as  he  had  seldom  known, 
wrapped  in  a  melancholy  which  was  not  all  sadness. 

Now  that  the  excitement  of  their  meeting  had  worn 
off,  she  had  an  opportunity  to  observe  him  closely. 
Yes,  he  was  changed.  It  seemed  to  her  at  times  that 
her  husband  had  not  altered  since  their  marriage.  He 
was  touched  by  immortal  youth.  But  Trent's  dark 
hair  was  already  sprinkled  with  grey,  and  his  face  had 
learned  sternness.  She  saw  that  he  had  been  success- 
ful, and  knew  that  character  had  wrought  for  that 
success  rather  than  brilliancy  of  gifts.  Even  his  emo- 
tions came  hard  with  him.  Mingled  with  his  tenacious 
power  was  a  deep  vein  of  shyness.  With  an  eye  which 
never  failed  to  notice  worldly  appearance,  she  per- 
ceived now  how  well  he  was  dressed,  and  she  looked 
away  from  him,  the  sudden  colour  burning  her  cheeks. 
She  had  remembered  the  rusty,  worn  shoes  drawn 
beneath  her  skirt.  She  wished  he  had  not  come, 
[25] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

but  her  warm  heart  repented  the  wish  almost  as  soon  as 
it  was  made,  so  that  she  turned  back  to  him  with  a 
smile,  the  flush  of  mortification  fading  away  beneath 
the  gentler  emotion  of  hospitality  which  succeeded  her 
anger. 

"  You  look  like  a  judge,  Jarvey,"  she  told  him. 
"  Somehow,  you  remind  me  of  my  father." 

"  Do  I  ?  "  he  answered.  "  Perhaps  the  same  profes- 
sion sets  its  stamp  on  men."  He  continued  to  regard 
her  with  an  abstracted  look,  the  look  of  a  man  so  in- 
tent in  thought  upon  a  woman  as  to  render  him  barely 
conscious  of  her  personal  nearness. 

She  looked  away.  A  dimple  came  and  went  in  the 
rounded  cheek  nearest  him. 

"  I  admired  your  father,"  he  said  simply.  "  I  stud- 
ied law  in  his  office.  That  was  when  I  met  you.  There 
is  a  steel  engraving  of  him  hanging  above  my  desk 
now,  and  I  have  his  old  office  furniture.  I  had  to  have 
the  chair  mended  with  steel  rods." 

Lispenard  came  in  gaily.  "  I  want  you  to  come  out 
with  me.  It's  a  wonderful  night.  My  dear,  are  you 
crying?  " 

"  No,  no,"  she  answered,  rising.  She  wiped  away 
her  tears  bewitchingly,  smiling  at  them  both.  "  Only 
we  were  speaking  of  my  father,  and  it  made  me  home- 
sick. I  can't  realise  he  isn't  still  living." 

"  She's  all  unstrung  over  your  coming,"  said  Lis- 
penard ;  "  it's  so  long  since  she's  seen  an  old  friend." 
[26] 


CHAPTER    TWO 

"  Yes,  yes ;  that's  it,"  she  assented  hastily.  Not  for 
worlds  would  she  have  them  divine  her  consciousness  of 
her  shabby  shoes.  She  was  so  nervous  that  she  felt  the 
least  kindly  question  would  draw  the  absurd  truth 
from  her.  "  Jarvey,  remember  that  we  expect  you  to 
breakfast.  I  wish  I  might  ask  you  to  remain  all  night, 
but  the  only  bed  I  could  offer  you  would  be  the  lounge 
in  this  room." 

She  met  her  husband's  glance.  "  I  am  hurt  that  you 
didn't  invite  me  to  go  with  you  on  your  moonlight 
walk,"  she  said,  pouting. 

He  laughed  outright,  and  Trent  joined  in.  How 
well  he  remembered  Adele's  old  pretence  of  being  of- 
fended over  some  mere  trifle ! 

She  followed  them  out  on  the  porch.  "  Good- 
night," she  called  after  them ;  "  good-night, 
Jarvey ! " 

He  turned  to  close  the  gate,  and  saw  her  wave  her 
handkerchief,  that  bit  of  sheer  linen  with  its  faint  per- 
fume which  she  had  insisted  had  the  very  smell  of  the 
desert  in  it.  Her  mood  was  changed  to  coquetry,  but 
the  little  handkerchief  she  waved  so  gaily  must  still 
be  damp  with  her  tears. 

"  She  makes  me  feel  like  a  boy  again,"  he  said,  as 
he  put  on  his  hat  and  fell  into  step  with  his  friend. 

"  She  keeps  me  a  boy,"  Lispenard  answered. 


[27] 


CHAPTER    III 

HE  glanced  at  Trent  as  he  spoke,  with  that  ready 
smile  which  the  other  remembered  so  well.  Un- 
like most  people  who  smile  often,  this  fre- 
quency of  expression  in  him  gave  always  the  impres- 
sion of  singular  rarity  and  a  kind  of  meaning  sweet- 
ness. His  light-grey  cowboy's  hat  shadowed  his  face, 
yet  his  features,  owing  to  the  clearness  of  the  air.  were 
distinct. 

"  You  know  what  the  painters  say  about  us ;  that 
we  have  no  atmosphere,"  he  said.  He  called  his  friend's 
attention  to  a  pink  rose  which  clambered  about  the 
doorway  of  the  Santa  Ines  Mission.  "  Did  you  ever 
know  moonlight  to  show  colour  like  that  before?  " 

"  No,"  answered  Trent,  adding  abruptly :  "  That 
youngest  boy  is  you  over  again." 

"  My  dear  fellow,"  he  protested,  "  don't  say  that. 
It  robs  Tiggy  and  me  both  of  our  individuality.  They 
say  a  man  is  made  over  every  seven  years,  and  I've 
been  made  over  five  times  and  more.  I'm  in  the  sixth 
process  now.  And  if  so  many  times  physically,  how 
many  times  spiritually  ?  " 

"  I'm  less  than  a  year  older  than  you,"  answered 
Trent,  "  and  yet  you  look  ten  years  younger  than  I." 

His  meeting  with  Lispenard  had  stirred  him  deeply. 
[28] 


CHAPTER   THREE 

It  was  the  domestic  life  which  kept  men  young,  and  he 
felt  a  pained  conviction  that  should  he  marry  now,  his 
friend  would  still  have  the  advantage  of  him  in  longer 
years  with  his  children. 

His  companion  was  silent.  Trent  was  touched  by 
the  spirituality  of  his  look.  "  No  one  deserves  happi- 
ness better  than  you,"  he  said. 

"  Happiness  !  "  retorted  Lispenard,  with  delicate  de- 
rision ;  "  happiness  is  a  condition  like  being  well-fed 
and  sleeping  of  nights.  I  hope  I  merit  deeper  experi- 
ence. Now,  Tiggy  is  happy." 

"  Where  is  your  church  ?  "  Trent  asked.  "  I'd  like 
to  see  it." 

They  turned  the  corner.  "  I  can  point  it  out  to  you 
from  here,"  he  answered.  "  It  is  that  little  building  at 
the  end  of  the  street." 

Trent  was  puzzled  that  he  paused  so  far  away.  He 
wished  to  go  nearer,  to  read  the  corner-stone,  perhaps, 
seeing  that  the  moonlight  was  so  bright,  to  go  inside. 

But  Lispenard,  after  waiting  courteously  a  moment, 
turned  away  indifferently. 

"  It  looks  small  to  you,"  he  said ;  "  but  it  holds  my 
congregation.  It  is  really  quite  elaborate  in  its  fur- 
nishings, that  is,  for  a  mission  church.  You  didn't 
know  me  when  I  passed  through  my  fever  of  ritual- 
ism ?  I  was  lost.  Ridiculous !  Oh,  I  wish  you  could 
have  seen  me!  You  would  have  enjoyed  it  so!  My 
performances  hypnotised  the  women  of  my  congrega- 
[29] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

tion.  Even  Adele  bobbed  and  crossed  and  bent  the 
knee !  Our  religion  was  obscured  by  the  tinsel  of  sym- 
bolism. And  I  assure  you,  Trent,  it's  the  one  part  of 
my  life  which  fills  me  with  keen  mortification.  You 
know  they  say  we  can  never  forgive  a  person  who  knows 
something  ridiculous  about  us,  and  I  have  actually 
wished  that  some  of  the  fools  in  my  congregation  could 
drop  into  their  graves.  Some  of  them  still  speak  sen- 
timentally to  me  of  the  time  when  there  was  so  much 
spirituality  among  us,  and  deplore  the  coldness  of  our 
present  service.  Well,  what  do  you  suppose  saved  me  ? 
I  must  tell  you.  One  of  my  most  ardent  supporters 
wished  to  put  in  a  memorial  window  to  her  son.  I  drew 
the  design  myself  and  sent  it  East.  It  was  a  lamb, 
holding  the  cross.  The  window  was  to  be  round,  and 
placed  directly  over  the  altar.  After  months  of  an- 
ticipation, it  came,  and  was  set  up.  The  light  fell 
through.  I  was  all  in  a  state  of  anticipatory  beati- 
tude. The  lamb  was  grey.  Imagine  my  feelings ! 
There  I  had  pictured  it  snowy-white.  As  far  as  my 
sensations  were  concerned,  it  might  have  been  the 
black  sheep,  for  it  was  only  a  few  shades  lighter.  I 
didn't  preach  the  sermon  I  had  intended  to  that  Sun- 
day. I  took  the  golden  calf  of  the  Hebrews  instead 
as  my  text." 

Trent  laughed.     He  had  an  absurd  picture  in  his 
mind  of  his  friend  dressed  in  all  the  paraphernalia 
of  a  ritualism  with  which  he  himself  had  not  the  slight- 
[30] 


est  sympathy.  He  was  a  sceptic,  although  his  mother, 
a  Scotchwoman,  had  been  a  blue  Presbyterian.  She 
had  reared  him  to  all  those  tenets  of  morality  her  code 
taught,  but  she  had  done  nothing  to  endear  his  church 
to  him,  and  so,  though  he  still  abided  by  those  prin- 
ciples of  living,  he  was  emotionally  cold  toward  re- 
ligion. 

"  The  only  question  that  really  interests  me  in  these 
matters,"  he  remarked,  "  is  whether  or  not  I  shall  be 
eligible  to  the  society  of  my  friends  after  we  have  de- 
parted this  world." 

They  walked  on  silently.  Trent  tried  to  imagine 
that  handful  of  people  which  made  up  Lispenard's  con- 
gregation, drawn  together  by  the  utter  loneliness  of 
the  desert  in  which  they  lived,  and  harking  back  to  the 
primitive  experiences  of  mankind,  going  through  their 
religious  rites  as  passionately  as  the  sun-worshippers 
whose  ancient  civilisation  had  passed  away  long  since. 

But  what  moonlight!  The  world  seemed  flooded 
with  it.  Never  had  he  known  such  reaches  of  blue- 
silver  light. 

"  I  should  think  you  might  become  moon-worship- 
pers," he  said. 

"  I  understand  that  class  to  be  confined  generally  in 
the  asylums,"  Lispenard  answered.  He  put  his  arm 
affectionately  through  his  friend's.  "  I  can't  express 
the  half  of  my  joy  in  having  you.  Would  you  rather 
keep  on  walking,  or  do  you  want  to  go  and  sit  down 
[31] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

somewhere  and  talk,  and  have  something  to  eat  ?  Don't 
tell  me  Mrs.  Lispenard's  crackers  and  marmalade  were 
sufficient  for  you.  You  see,  I  remember  your  appe- 
tite of  old." 

"  To  be  frank,"  Trent  confessed,  "  I  didn't  think 
much  of  the  lunch-counter  at  the  depot." 

"  No  one's  supposed  to  take  his  meals  there,"  Lis- 
penard  informed  him,  "  except  the  train  passengers. 
Campi's  is  the  place  to  go." 

They  turned  into  the  main  street.  It  was  but  a 
few  blocks  in  length,  and  built  up  on  one  side  only. 
The  little  town  of  adobe  homes  and  low-nestling  trees 
through  which  they  had  been  strolling  became  remote 
in  contrast  to  the  palpitant  gaiety  of  this  scene. 

"  It  is  always  a  mystery  to  me  where  this  class 
comes  from  here  in  Sahuaro,"  said  Lispenard.  "  Dur- 
ing the  day  I  seem  to  see  only  the  shop-keepers,  some 
of  my  parishioners,  the  Indians,  the  Roman  Catholic 
priest,  but  the  night  brings  strange  birds.  Lord  knows 
where  they  come  from.  Many  are  in  from  the  mines 
to  spend  their  earnings,  and  the  professional  gambler 
is  always  among  us,  of  course.  I  suppose  it  is  the  in- 
fusion of  Spaniards  and  Mexicans  which  intensifies 
this  sense  of  reckless  adventure  in  the  air." 

Music  floated  out  from  behind  the  screens  of  saloons. 
The  two  cowboys  whom  Trent  had  happened  to  notice 
when  he  first  entered  the  depot  stood  now  in  a  shooting- 
gallery,  aiming  at  the  leaping  white  rabbit  and 
[32]' 


CHAPTER    THREE 

hounds  which  revolved  continuously;  the  proprietor 
of  an  open  cigar-stand  was  throwing  dice  with  his  cus- 
tomers ;  through  the  laundry  window  a  Chinaman  was 
to  be  seen  ironing  shirts  and  collars. 

It  seemed  like  the  exposed  street  of  a  seaport  town. 

"  I  can't  help  feeling  that  I  am  in  a  fishing-village 
on  a  Saturday  night,  and  that  this  breeze  is  whipping 
in  from  the  ocean,"  said  Trent. 

"  One  immensity  reminds  us  of  another,  but  such  a 
dry,  sweet  breeze  never  blew  out  of  the  ocean.  It  takes 
the  desert  to  give  us  that."  Lispenard  paused  as  he 
spoke.  "  This  is  Campi's." 

Trent  read  the  name  painted  across  the  large  front 
window  of  the  one-storied  frame  building.  Within 
were  displayed  bottles  of  wine,  cooked  viands,  fruits, 
and  fresh  green  lettuce.  The  double  screen  door  car- 
ried him  back  to  his  childhood.  A  tropical  scene  was 
painted  on  one  half  and  an  Icelandic  view  on  the  other. 
The  room  was  fairly  well  filled  as  they  entered  and 
took  seats  in  the  least-occupied  corner  and  ordered 
sandwiches  and  beer. 

Trent  noticed  that  his  companion  did  not  touch  the 
food  and  drank  but  a  slight  portion  of  the  beer.  The 
man  was  very  delicate.  "  Do  you  enjoy  the  life  here, 
Theodore  ?  "  he  asked  him. 

"  I'm  not  much  needed,"  he  answered,  "  except  as  a 
kind  of  parish  nurse,  to  marry  and  baptise  and  bury 
people.  These  Westerners  are  fine  and  free.  They 
[33] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

have  their  own  code  of  morality.     I  should  do  more 
good  in  the  big  cities." 

"  Then  why  don't  you  go  there?  "  Trent  cried  im- 
pulsively, "  and  let  the  world  hear  from  you?  "  He 
leant  across  the  table  eagerly.  He  had  thought  that 
his  affection  for  his  friend  had  long  since  faded  into 
mere  sentiment  over  their  diverging  ways.  But  this 
unexpected  meeting  had  shown  the  old  love  and  con- 
geniality strong  as  ever.  Now,  as  he  awaited  a  reply 
to  his  appeal,  he  had  an  instant's  contemplation  of  the 
delightful  companionship  in  store  for  them  both  should 
Lispenard  go  East. 

"  Perhaps  I  shall,"  he  answered,  smiling  at  his 
friend's  enthusiasm. 

The  answer  was  disingenuous.  Trent  drew  back 
chilled.  The  tone  was  evasive,  and  there  was  an  ex- 
pression in  his  friend's  blue  eyes  which  he  read  in- 
stantly. It  was  the  look  of  a  man  inviolably  wedded 
to  a  secret  passion.  His  impulse  of  coldness  was  suc- 
ceeded by  pity.  What  poison  had  found  its  way  into 
the  man's  heart?  His  wife  and  two  children  should 
have  kept  him  sweet  and  whole.  His  heart  yearned 
toward  his  friend. 

And  as  if  he  felt  this  softened  mood  toward  him, 
not  at  all  understanding  the  cause,  Lispenard's  eyes 
grew  sunny. 

"  Tell  me  of  yourself,"  he  said.  "  You  see  what  my 
life  is." 

[34] 


CHAPTER    THREE 

Trent  opened  his  heart  and  spoke  of  himself  as  he 
had  not  since  he  last  saw  Lispenard.  He  saw  that  his 
friend  was  intensely  interested,  yet  without  curiosity. 
The  man  was  under  no  temptation  to  sit  in  judgment 
on  anyone.  It  was  the  quality  of  the  ideal  priest. 

"  I  have  had  a  struggle.  When  you  married  I  had 
already  opened  an  office  in  my  own  town — 

"  I  remember,"  Lispenard  interrupted  him.  "  It 
was  on  Main  Street.  I  did  answer  that  letter  from 
you,  didn't  I?" 

"  And  after  a  while  I  found  out  that  no  lawyer 
would  take  a  case  against  a  fellow-lawyer.  This  all 
seemed  professional  honour  to  me  at  first,  but  after  a 
while  I  caught  on.  They  lived  on  the  trades-people, 
and  never  paid  their  bills.  Of  course  there  were  fine 
men  in  the  profession  in  town,  but  they  didn't  think  it 
good  taste  to  take  up  such  claims.  But  I  did.  I  took 
up  one  case  after  another,  and  the  sharks  either  paid 
up  or  left  town.  It  started  me  in  law,  but  I  got  the 
reputation  of  being  an  ugly  fellow.  It  hurt  me.  A 
man  doesn't  want  to  be  hated.  Then  I  went  into  poli- 
tics. I've  spent  these  fifteen  years  fighting." 

"  And  I  in  dreaming,"  said  Lispenard,  with  his  first 
touch  of  sadness. 

"  Finally  I  found  myself  tired  out,  and  a  month  ago 

I  decided  to  take  a  vacation.     What  do  you  suppose 

started  me?    An  old  phrase  of  yours,  The  Adventure 

of  Life.    It  was  like  a  hand  beckoning  me  away.  And 

[35] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

so  I  started  out,  thinking  I  would  take  my  time  in  see- 
ing the  West,  and  I  found  you  and  your  wife  again." 

"  It  was  the  voice  of  the  spirit  calling,"  said  Lispe- 
nard.  "  I  didn't  know  how  much  I  was  missing  you 
until  to-night.  Ah !  you  must  stay  with  us  out  here. 
Call  it  the  desert  if  you  will.  It  is  the  land  of  promise. 
It  is  in  such  immensities  that  one  grows  to  realise  the 
eternal  verities.  Petty  distinctions,  which  we  are  apt 
to  label  moral,  cease." 

"  It  sounds  well,"  Trent  rejoined ;  "  but  should  these 
distinctions  you  call  moral,  cease  ?  " 

"  My  dear  Gulliver,"  cried  the  other,  "  have  the  Lil- 
liputians bound  you  fast  with  their  threads  of  conven- 
tion ?  The  distinctions  I  speak  of  are  to  the  soul  what 
dress  is  to  the  body — mere  frippery.  Don't  you  re- 
member the  swimming-pool,  and  how  we  little  fellows 
dived  into  the  water,  or  sunned  our  naked  bodies  after- 
ward on  a  log?  We  were  twice  the  boys  then  that  we 
were  when  scrubbed  up  and  dressed  and  sent  to  Sun- 
day school." 

"  You  are  one  of  the  most  cultivated  men  I  ever 
knew,"  his  friend  answered  slowly,  "  yet  I  think  you 
would  always  have  had  us  turn  barbarians." 

"  No,  no !  "  he  laughed ;  "  but  Greeks,  my  dear  Jar- 
vey."  He  put  his  hand  across  the  table  and  laid  it  on 
the  other's  arm.  His  face  glowed.  "  Don't  go  back 
East.  Stay  with  us." 

His  enthusiasm  burst  forth.  Here  in  the  desert 
[36] 


CHAPTER    THREE 

would  spring  again  all  the  glories  of  antiquity.  The 
East  did  not  know  such  soil.  All  that  was  needed  was 
irrigation.  Here  would  be  represented  the  best  phase 
of  the  national  life,  the  flowering,  indeed,  of  American 
civilisation.  The  finest  spirit  of  brotherhood  would  be 
engendered,  for  no  man  could  work  alone  to  reclaim  the 
desert,  as  on  a  New  England  farm.  Irrigation  meant 
co-operation. 

Two  men,  about  to  leave,  paused  and  listened.  Lis- 
penard  addressed  them.  In  a  moment  he  had  made  his 
audience.  The  whole  rude  element  of  the  restaurant 
gathered  about  his  table. 

Madame  Campi,  the  wife  of  the  proprietor,  sat  at 
the  desk  and  made  change,  and  bestowed  shrewd, 
pleased  glances  on  Lispenard.  An  attraction  in  the 
restaurant  meant  custom.  She  was  a  hard,  handsome 
woman,  showily  dressed  in  silk  and  wearing  consider- 
able jewelry.  Campi  himself,  slight,  nervous,  dark, 
wearing  a  continual  smile,  was  the  cook,  and  stood, 
white-capped  and  aproned,  in  the  door  leading  to  the 
kitchen,  pleased  that  the  one  waiter  was  kept  busy 
slipping  in  and  out  among  his  guests  with  the  drinks. 
In  the  pauses  between  the  making  of  change  Madame 
Campi  crocheted  briskly.  The  big  gilt  mirror  at  the 
end  of  the  room  reflected  the  lights,  the  lounging  men 
with  their  cigars  and  drink,  Campi's  capped  and  timid 
figure,  the  stout  madame  with  her  crocheting,  the 
clergyman's  delicate  hand  raised  to  emphasise  a  point. 
[37] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

The   restaurant    seemed   twice    as    full   as    it    really 
was. 

Trent  was  thinking  that  Lispenard  would  have  made 
a  success  at  the  law.  He  himself  was  not  eloquent,  but 
he  was  relentless,  sure,  an  opponent  to  be  feared.  He 
wrested  attention  by  force.  His  companion  won  it 
through  sheer  brilliancy. 

Lispenard  ended  as  abruptly  as  he  had  begun,  and 
took  up  his  hat  and  cane.  "  Are  you  ready  ?  "  he 
asked. 

He  stepped  through  the  small  crowd  to  the  desk,  and 
paid  for  the  sandwiches  and  beer. 

"  You  are  industrious,  Madame  Campi,"  he  said, 
as  he  took  his  change. 

"  So,"  she  said.  It  was  the  one  English  word  she 
used  most,  and  it  took  its  meaning  from  the  different 
inflections  she  gave  to  it. 

As  they  went  out,  Trent  saw  that  his  companion 
looked  suddenly  white  and  exhausted. 

"  How  these  people  must  care  for  you !  "  he  said. 

Lispenard  shook  his  head.  "  I'm  not  their  kind. 
They  don't  approve  of  me.  People  still  like  the  pro- 
fessional good  man  best,  and  I  don't  even  wear  the 
clerical  dress  ordinarily.  Those  men  cared  nothing  for 
what  I  said  of  the  possibilities  opening  in  the  South- 
west. They  stopped  to  listen  because  it  afforded  some 
diversion.  If  I  hadn't  been  a  clergyman  I  might  have 
convinced  them.  But,  as  they  would  express  it,  I  was 
[38] 


CHAPTER    THREE 

off  my  territory.  If  I  had  gone  into  one  of  these  sa- 
loons and  sung  a  hymn,  I  would  have  made  a  conver- 
sion and  been  respected.  No,  I'm  not  the  man  for  this 
place." 

They  walked  through  the  plaza,  which  was  dark  and 
deserted,  but  fragrant  with  the  invisible  welcome  of 
the  flowers.  The  long  wooden  platform  of  the  depot 
was  lighted  by  a  single  kerosene  lamp,  which  had  a  re- 
flector and  was  set  high  in  an  iron  bracket.  They 
climbed  the  stairs  to  the  balcony  above  and  knocked  at 
the  upper  door. 

Haydon  opened  it,  barefoot,  his  trousers  drawn  on 
hastily  over  his  night-shirt. 

"  This  is  Mr.  Trent,  an  old  friend  of  ours,  Hay- 
don," said  Lispenard.  "  I  want  you  to  see  that  he  is 
made  comfortable." 

"  Got  his  room  all  ready,"  the  station-master  an- 
swered. "  Reckon  you  was  surprised  to  find  you  had 
friends  here  in  town.  Neighbour  of  mine  said  he  saw 
you  and  Mis'  Lispenard  meet.  He  was  passing  by  on 
the  other  side  of  the  road." 

"  Haydon's  neighbour  to  every  man  in  town,"  re- 
marked Lispenard  pleasantly.  "  Get  a  good  night's 
sleep.  Remember,  we  expect  you  to  breakfast  in  the 
morning." 

Haydon  led  the  way  through  a  dark  hallway  to  a 
room  at  the  end,  and  flung  open  the  door.  "  Reckon 
you'll  find  everything  all  right.  I  put  an  extra  blan- 
[39] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

ket  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  in  case  you're  cold,  and  I 
brought  up  your  valise." 

"  Look  here !  "  cried  Trent,  as  his  host  was  about  to 
go,  "  aren't  you  going  to  give  me  a  light  ?  " 

"  I  didn't  calculate  to,  with  those  moonbeans  coming 
in  the  window  as  bright  as  day,"  he  answered. 

"  You'll  have  to  make  another  calculation,  my 
friend,"  Trent  retorted  good-naturedly.  "  I've  had 
enough  moonlight  for  to-night,  and  if  it's  not  going 
to  be  any  trouble  to  you,  I'd  just  like  that  curtain 
down  and  a  lamp  and  a  newspaper.  I  don't  care  if 
the  newspaper  is  a  week  old.  I  want  something  to 
read." 

The  station-master  laughed.  "  Well,  set  down  and 
try  to  stand  the  moonshine  a  few  minutes  longer.  Some 
strangers  seem  to  get  into  a  huff  with  us  out  here  the 
minute  they  light  off  the  train.  The  desert  strikes  'em 
as  lonesome-like." 

He  was  gone  some  moments,  and  Trent  sat  at  the 
window  staring  out  upon  a  world  which  seemed  made 
all  of  black  shadow  and  blue  and  silver  light. 

Finally  Haydon  came  back,  pushing  the  door  open 
with  his  bare  foot,  as  his  hands  were  full.  Under  one 
arm  he  held  a  newspaper  and  a  paper-backed  novel. 
He  set  the  lamp  on  the  bureau  and  put  down  beside  it 
a  small  glass  of  port  wine. 

"  It  seems  funny  how  our  jokes  sometimes  come 
true,"  he  said.  "  There  Mis'  Lispenard  and  I  have 
[40] 


CHAPTER    THREE 

been  joking  for  years  about  the  friend  from  home  we 
was  to  see  get  off  the  train  some  time,  and  here  you've 
come.  It  ought  to  be  my  turn  next  to  see  someone 
from  Georgia." 

"  Have  you  been  here  long?  "  asked  Trent. 

"  Been  West  forty  years,  and  the  last  ten  of  'em  in 
Sahuaro,"  he  answered. 

"  Well,"  said  Trent,  "  you  haven't  gotten  over  be- 
ing a  Southerner,  have  you  ?  " 

Haydon  was  pleased.  "  It's  my  voice,  I  reckon.  If 
I  can't  do  anything  more  for  you,  I'll  say  good- 
night." 

"Hold  on!"  cried  Trent.  "Don't  you  want  to 
drink  that  port  yourself?  I'm  much  obliged,  but  I've 
just  had  something." 

The  station-master  looked  doubtful.  "  I  took  it 
upon  myself  to  offer  it  to  you,  seeing  you  was  a  friend 
of  Mr.  Lispenard's.  It  don't  belong  to  me  by  rights." 
He  lifted  the  glass  and  held  it  so  the  light  caught  the 
ruby  glow.  "  Pretty,  aint  it?  "  He  cocked  his  weather- 
eye  at  Trent  and  drained  the  glass.  "  I'm  giving  it 
to  a  sick  fellow  I've  got  in  a  room  here.  He  came 
in  on  the  train  a  couple  of  weeks  ago.  The  doc- 
tor sent  him  out  for  the  climate.  He  hadn't  any 
money,  and  he  was  trying  to  get  a  job.  Well,  I  just 
settled  him  in  that  room  and  told  him  not  to  worry, 
that  I  was  going  to  have  a  little  fun  nursing  him.  I 
was  in  the  war,  sah,  in  the  South.  When  he  got  well  I 
[41  ] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

told  him  I'd  get  him  a  job  as  a  cow-puncher.  He  was 
plucky,  but  weak.  I  held  to  my  guns,  however,  and 
got  him  in  bed.  '  Rest  is  what  you  want,'  I  says."  He 
lowered  his  voice  confidentially.  "  I  more  than  half 
suspicion  he's  got  coloured  blood  in  him.  Now,  I  like 
to  be  charitable,  but  how  do  I  feel,  me,  a  Southern 
gentleman,  a-nursing  of  a  nigger ! " 

"  I  don't  blame  you,"  said  Trent. 

Haydon  surprised  him  by  extending  his  hand. 
"  You're  all  right.  I  saw  you  were  from  the  North, 
but  if  you'd  been  one  of  them  damn  Yanks  we  some- 
times get  down  here,  who  would  have  told  me  I  ought 
to  be  proud  to  nurse  a  nigger,  and  all  that,  you'd 
have  seen  damn  little  of  me.  I'm  going  to  let  on  he's 
got  Mexican  blood  in  him,  if  anything's  remarked. 
Matter  of  pride  with  me,  so  you  keep  mum.  Mexi- 
can blood  always  goes  in  these  parts,  but  you  can't 
fool  a  Southerner."  With  a  farewell  wink  he  went  out 
and  closed  the  door,  and  Trent  heard  the  soft  fall  of 
his  bare  feet  lessen  down  the  hall. 

He  was  glad  of  the  extra  blanket  that  night.  He 
awoke  shivering  just  before  dawn,  and  pulled  it  over 
him.  The  moonlight  was  gone,  and  he  heard  a  faint 
echo  of  the  invalid's  cough.  His  window  grew  grey, 
but  he  could  not  sleep.  The  thought  of  Adele  kept 
him  awake.  She  was  the  kind  of  wife  and  mother  his 
imagination  had  pictured  her,  and  this  was  both  bitter 
and  sweet  to  him.  He  heard  Haydon  go  down  the  hall 
[4*]. 


CHAPTER    THREE 

and  speak  to  the  sick  man.  The  incident  changed  the 
current  of  his  thought,  and  his  heart  warmed  with  the 
consciousness  of  the  hospitality  which  had  been  shown 
him.  He  had  heard  of  it  all  his  life,  this  big  hospi- 
tality of  the  West.  In  the  darkness  he  smiled  as  he  re- 
membered that  Adele's  boys  were  planning  for  his  en- 
tertainment, and  so,  finally,  he  fell  asleep  again. 


[43] 


CHAPTER    IV 

HE  was  awakened   by  a  little  tapping  on  his 
door. 

"Who  is  it?  "he  called. 

"  Tiggy,"  came  the  reply.  "  Breakfast's  'most 
ready." 

"  All  right,"  he  returned.  "  Tell  your  mother  not 
to  wait  for  me.  I'll  be  over  as  soon  as  I'm  dressed." 

But  when  he  came  out  he  found  Tiggy  sitting  on 
the  hall-floor  outside  his  door,  a  barefooted,  hatless 
little  figure.  He  rose  and  slipped  his  hand  into 
Trent's.  "  Hurry  up,"  he  said.  "  Mamma's  made 
pop-overs,  and  they  go  down  if  they're  not  eaten  right 
away." 

Trent  could  have  hugged  him.  The  child  was  so 
serious  and  charming. 

It  was  seven  o'clock  in  the  morning.  The  air 
seemed  so  thin,  so  rarefied,  that  he  had  a  peculiar  feel- 
ing as  if  there  were  no  air  for  him  to  breathe.  He 
had  the  same  buoyancy  a  spring  day  at  home  im- 
parted. 

Not  since  his  childhood  had  he  been  so  conscious  of 
the  sunshine.     It   penetrated   everything;   the  white 
sand  in  the  roadway  sparkled ;  the  low  trees  were  pleas- 
[44] 


CHAPTER    FOUR 

ant  spots  of  green  against  the  cream-coloured  adobe 
walls ;  the  sky  above  was  as  blue  as  Italy. 

He  hummed  a  favourite  song  and  swung  the  hand 
of  the  child  walking  with  him. 

"  I  wonder  if  we'll  be  good  friends  when  you  grow 
up,"  he  said,  breaking  off  in  his  tune  to  smile  down 
upon  the  little  fellow. 

"  How  funny  you  are,"  answered  Tiggy.  "  Why 
don't  you  be  good  friends  with  me  now  ?  Why  do  you 
wait  until  I  grow  up?  I  may  always  be  just  a  little 
boy.  I  might  die." 

"  I  hope  not,"  Trent  rejoined,  too  dumbfounded 
to  make  any  other  reply.  He  glanced  down  a  street 
they  were  passing  and  beyond  the  few  houses  that 
straggled  off  into  the  desert.  The  sight  struck  a 
note  of  desolation  into  his  mood.  The  consciousness 
of  the  desert  came  back,  remorseless  and  cruel,  wait- 
ing to  swallow  up  the  struggling  town.  Could  irri- 
gation prevail  against  such  a  great  force  of  nature? 
How  could  men  who  had  ever  known  the  green  East 
and  North  choose  this  land?  Tiggy  dragged  at  his 
hand,  and  he  perceived  that  the  child  was  hanging 
back  to  look  down  the  street  they  were  about  passing. 
He  had  his  father's  sensitive  frown  when  perplexed. 
But  in  a  minute  his  face  cleared  and  he  laughed  and 
waved  his  hand. 

"  Do  you  see  him?  "  he  asked. 

Trent  was  puzzled. 

[45] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

"  No,"  he  answered. 

"  I  see  him,"  Tiggy  answered,  with  another  wave 
of  his  hand.  "  Come  on,  we've  got  to  hurry  if  we 
want  those  pop-overs  good.  Mamma's  tin  bakes  only 
eleven,  and  we  can  never  divide  them  up  even.  So 
Jim  and  me  and  Papa,  we  each  eat  three,  and  she  takes 
two." 

She  was  waiting  for  them  at  the  gate.  "  Was  I 
cruel  to  send  Tiggy  to  wake  you  up?  But  I  wanted 
you  to  come  while  everything  was  nice  and  hot.  And 
then  you  must  never  miss  the  freshness  of  the  early 
morning  out  here.  It's  the  pleasantest  part  of  the 
day.  Everyone  takes  a  siesta  in  the  afternoon." 
She  had  on  the  gown  of  the  night  before,  which  now 
took  on  a  deeper  tone  of  lilac  colour  in  the  sunshine. 
The  black  lace  scarf  and  rose  were  gone,  and  she 
wore  an  apron  and  a  simple  collar  of  white  em- 
broidery. 

She  led  the  way  around  the  side  of  the  house,  and  he 
followed,  wondering.  The  sunshine  flecked  her  brown 
hair  with  gold;  she  raised  her  hand  to  break  off  a 
spray  of  blue-flowering  vine,  and  the  lilac  ruffle  of  her 
sleeve  fell  back  to  her  white  elbow. 

She  looked  back  over  her  shoulder  and  smiled  at 
him.  "  It's  such  fun  to  have  you  here,  Jarvey,  and 
the  children  are  in  as  great  a  state  of  excitement  over 
it  as  we.  I'm  taking  you  around  to  the  back  yard. 
We  eat  out  of  doors  in  the  summer  time." 
[46] 


CHAPTER    POUR 

Lispenard  and  Jim  were  seated  at  the  table,  drum- 
ming on  the  board  with  their  knives. 

"  Hullo !  "  cried  Jim.  "  We're  pretending  we're 
so  hungry  we  can't  wait." 

"  How  do  you  like  our  breakfast-room?  "  asked 
Lispenard. 

"  I  think  it  is  delightful,"  Trent  answered  heart- 
ily, looking  about  him. 

It  was  made  of  cacti  sticks  with  open  intervals, 
and  over  the  sides  and  roof  were  trained  vines  so  that 
the  interior  seemed  filled  with  a  cool  green  air.  Near 
by  rose  the  side  wall  of  the  Mission  of  Santa  Ines. 
The  adobe,  once  painted  dark  yellow,  was  cracked  and 
broken  away  in  places.  An  apricot  tree  with  ripen- 
ing fruit  was  thrown  in  shadow  against  it.  Rising 
above  the  body  of  the  building  was  the  tower  con- 
taining the  bronze  bells  which  were  still  sweet- 
toned. 

The  table  was  set  and  waiting.  In  the  centre  was 
the  promised  dish  of  figs,  purple-black  on  a  bed  of 
green  leaves. 

Mrs.  Lispenard  had  disappeared  into  the  kitchen, 
and  they  heard  her  voice  calling  Jim.  He  rose  and 
ran  into  the  house,  Tiggy  skurrying  after  him.  They 
soon  returned,  Jim  bearing  a  platter  which  held  a 
big  golden-brown  omelet,  his  brother  following  with 
the  prized  pop-overs,  their  pretty  mother  bringing  up 
the  rear  with  the  coffee-pot  steaming  fragrantly. 
[47] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

"  I  never  was  so  hungry  in  my  life,"  their  guest 
stated. 

"  I  hope  the  coffee's  strong  enough,"  said  Adele, 
her  cheeks  very  pink  with  excitement  and  pleasure. 
"  I  remember  you  always  took  it  so." 

Lispenard  said  grace  in  two  Latin  words  of  bless- 
ing. "  I'm  never  cruel  enough  to  say  a  long  grace 
because  there's  company,"  he  added,  laughing.  He 
was  looking  well.  The  strong  light  of  morning 
showed  him  no  less  youthful.  He  had  on  slippers, 
and  his  grey  study- jacket,  like  a  book-cover  shabby 
through  much  use,  had  an  added  dignity  and  mean- 
ing because  of  this  worn  look.  "  I've  been  up  work- 
ing for  a  couple  of  hours,"  he  said.  "  I  seem  to  need 
no  more  sleep  than  I  ever  did." 

Trent  felt  the  holiday  spirit  of  the  occasion, 
and  he  was  touched,  even  embarrassed,  in  his  instinc- 
tive modesty,  to  think  he  was  the  inspiration 
of  it. 

After  breakfast  the  two  men  strolled  over  to  ex- 
plore the  old  mission.  Trent  found  it  to  be  no  less 
interesting  than  the  conversation  of  the  previous 
evening  had  led  him  to  expect.  There  were  the  dim 
frescoes  of  the  evangelists  and  angels,  the  quaint 
painting  of  the  Lord  blowing  down  the  breath  of  life, 
the  broken  green  balconies,  the  sunken  main  altar. 
The  floors  had  long  since  almost  disappeared,  and 
showed  in  uneven  patches  above  drifted  sand.  Lis- 
[48] 


CHAPTER    FOUR 

penard  climbed  up  into  the  tiny  tower  and  rang  the 
bronze  bells,  startling  a  flock  of  white  doves  that 
nested  in  the  turret. 

Trent,  listening  below  in  the  half -dusk,  experienced 
an  emotion  more  akin  to  pure  religion  than  he  had 
known  for  years.  The  sweet  tones  seemed  to  fill  his 
ears  with  echoings  of  the  past.  He  felt  that  they 
sounded  from  an  ancient  frontier  civilisation,  and  he 
was  filled  with  reverence  for  the  early  mission  fathers 
who  had  brought  those  bells  such  distances  into  the 
interior. 

When  they  returned  to  the  house  they  found  Mrs. 
Lispenard  alone. 

"  I  told  Jim  he  might  have  a  holiday,  Theodore," 
she  said,  glancing  up  from  her  sewing.  "  He  was 
much  disappointed  that  I  wouldn't  consent  to  a  pic- 
nic in  your  honour  to-day,"  she  added,  addressing 
Trent.  "  I  thought  you  would  enjoy  it  more  after  a 
day  or  two,  when  you  are  rested." 

"  I'm  not  tired,"  he  said.  "  I  should  enjoy  any- 
thing. Where  does  he  go  to  school  ?  " 

"  He  has  been  through  the  school  here,  which  has 
only  the  primary  courses  as  yet,  so  Theodore  teaches 
both  him  and  Tiggy,"  she  answered. 

"  I  suppose  you  will  soon  be  sending  them  East  to 
a  preparatory  school,"  Trent  remarked. 

"  I  should  like  to,"  she  said,  with  a  touch  of  bitter- 
ness, "  but  we  have  no  money.  I  tell  Theodore  that 
[49] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

Jim  will  make  a  splendid  cow-puncher  and  Tiggy 
might  become  an  assistant  to  him  in  the  ministry.  The 
bishop  is  a  good  old  man  and  would  give  him  his  de- 
gree easily.  I'm  sure  he'd  make  allowances  for  his 
not  being  very  strong." 

Lispenard  smiled.  "  I'm  determined  not  to  be  hurt 
by  the  sting  of  poverty.  I  refuse  to  let  outside  cir- 
cumstances humiliate  me.  *  Dost  thou  laugh  to  see 
how  fools  are  vexed,  To  add  to  golden  numbers, 
golden  numbers?  '  Wait  until  I  get  on  my  shoes  and 
change  my  coat.  I  want  to  take  you  for  a  walk  be- 
fore it  gets  any  warmer  out." 

While  he  was  gone  in  his  bedroom  Mrs.  Lispenard 
sewed  nervously,  not  looking  up  at  her  guest.  Her 
happier  mood  was  gone. 

"  You  ought  to  be  proud  of  your  boys,"  he  said 
gently.  "  They  are  fine  little  fellows."  A  vague  plan 
was  forming  in  his  mind.  Perhaps  he  might  be  al- 
lowed to  help  toward  their  education.  The  sons  of 
such  a  scholar  as  Lispenard,  and  the  grandsons  of  such 
an  able  man  as  her  father  had  been,  were  born  to  the 
training  of  a  university. 

"  Are  you  ready  ?  "  asked  Lispenard,  reappearing. 

She  smiled  a  good-bye  to  Trent,  but  she  did  not 
look  at  her  husband.  He  followed  his  guest  out,  his 
colour  heightened.  Halfway  to  the  gate  he  excused 
himself  and  went  back  into  the  house  and  kissed  her 
good-bye.  She  was  crying. 
[50] 


CHAPTER    FOUR 

"  I  am  sorry  I  said  that  about  being  poor,"  she 
told  him. 

He  kissed  her  again.     "  I  wish  you  were  as  rich  in 

me  as  I  in  you,"  he  answered,  and  she  put  her  arm 

about  his  neck,  telling  him  she  had  not  meant  it,  desir- 

,  ous  above  all  things  not  to  spoil  his  walk,  but  to  send 

him  off  happy  with  his  friend. 

But  when  he  had  finally  gone  she  locked  the  door 
against  any  disturbance  and  lay  down  on  the  lounge 
and  wept  bitterly.  At  last  she  stopped  from  sheer 
weariness.  She  had  a  mental  vision  of  her  husband  as 
he  must  be  at  that  moment,  walking  beside  his  friend, 
looking  younger  than  he  should  for  his  age;  slight, 
blue-eyed,  visionary,  talking,  talking,  talking.  She 
wrung  her  hands  nervously.  Would  he  never  stop  ? 

What  had  he  ever  done  for  her,  for  his  children? 
Was  a  husband's,  a  father's  duty  merely  a  negative 
one,  merely  that  he  should  not  be  unkind?  It  was 
Jarvis  Trent  who  had  thought  the  boys  ought  to  be 
sent  away  to  school.  She  sat  staring  into  the  past, 
trying  to  reconstruct  it  and  to  see  the  possibilities  of 
the  present  had  she  married  Trent.  She  had  broken 
her  engagement  with  him  to  marry  Lispenard.  But 
she  could  not  imagine  her  life  now  without  her  chil- 
dren, whose  individuality  was  as  strong  as  her  own. 
Perhaps  she  had  been  wrong.  She  had  not  shown  the 
sympathy  with  this  last  book  which  she  had  accorded 
his  earlier  writings.  Her  woman's  pride  demanded 
[51] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

her  husband's  worldly  success.  Whatever  their  in- 
tellectual worth  might  be,  those  unpublished  manu- 
scripts were  only  pitiful  to  her.  Even  more,  she  was 
humiliated  by  them.  She  would  read  for  herself  the 
chapter  which  he  had  been  discussing  with  Yucca 
Armes  the  night  before.  She  sat  down  at  his  desk  and 
took  it  out  from  the  drawer,  and  read  it  carefully 
word  for  word,  her  eyes  aching  with  the  tears  she  had 
shed.  She  did  not  pause  until  she  had  finished  the 
chapter.  Her  heart  was  not  softened.  She  laid 
her  hands  on  the  manuscript  and  looked  at  them, 
the  hands  of  a  gentlewoman  roughened  by  hard 
work. 

She  turned  back  the  leaves  to  the  first  page  and 
read  it  over  again.  There  had  been  a  sentence  echo- 
ing in  her  mind  for  months.  At  times  she  had  even 
feared  her  unconscious  lips  would  frame  it  while  she 
slept  and  her  husband  would  guess  her  condemnation 
of  him. 

But  now  she  said  the  words  aloud,  distinctly,  in  the 
room  in  which  she  was  thankful  to  sit  alone. 
"  '  The  voice  of  one  crying  in  the  wilderness.' ' 
The  very  utterance  was  a  relief  after  the  long  strain 
of  repression.     She  repeated  the  words  again  deliber- 
ately, her  eyes  on  the  manuscript. 

"  '  The  voice  of  one  crying  in  the  wilderness.' ' 
Where  had  it  led  her,  that  voice  she  had  followed  in 
her  careless  girlhood? 

[52] 


CHAPTER    FOUR 

To  the  wilderness — to  the  desert ! 

The  voice  of  love — a  siren  voice.  Her  thoughts 
were  bitter.  She  did  not  wish  to  look  at  her  husband 
when  his  friend  was  by,  so  poorly  did  his  youthful 
appearance  contrast  with  Trent's  maturity.  She 
covered  her  eyes  with  her  hands.  Her  old  lover  had 
been  faithful  to  her  memory.  Her  instinct  told  her 
that.  Her  inner  self  held  aloof  from  Theodore;  it 
even  struggled  to  free  itself  from  the  clinging  love  of 
her  children,  and  to  revert  to  her  youthful  dreams  of 
happiness. 

She  heard  Tiggy  try  the  front  door  and,  when  he 
could  not  get  in,  go  around  to  the  back.  He  came  in 
through  the  kitchen,  calling  her  all  the  way,  a  habit 
carried  over  from  his  babyhood. 

"  I'm  here,  dear,"  she  answered. 

He  was  frightened  when  he  perceived  that  she  had 
been  crying.  She  took  him  up  in  her  lap. 

"  Have  you  been  reading  a  sad  story,  Mamma  ?  " 
he  asked,  with  the  sensitive  frown  which  was  like  his 
father's.  He  knew  what  it  was  to  cry  hard  even 
over  fairy  stories,  which  everyone  knew  were  not 
true. 

She  nodded. 

"  You  oughtn't  to  read  sad  stories,"  said  Tiggy. 
Suddenly  he  burst  into  tears.  "  You  oughtn't  to," 
he  insisted.  The  sight  of  his  mother  crying  was  too 
much  for  him. 

[53] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

She  had  never  had  sweeter  consolation.  In  com- 
forting him  she  forgot  her  own  grief.  The  trend  of 
her  nature  was  toward  happiness.  In  the  reaction 
which  followed  her  mood  of  bitterness  she  became  more 
joyous  than  she  had  been  for  days. 


[54] 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  two  men  strolled  down  to  the  barber-shop, 
the  framework  of  which  was  painted  in  diag- 
onal stripes  of  red,  white,   and   blue.      There 
Lispenard  read  the  daily  Sahuaro  Courant  while  his 
guest  was  being  shaved. 

"  I  cannot  express  the  great  admiration  a  sheet 
of  this  kind  rouses  in  me,"  he  remarked  when  Trent 
was  ready  to  go ;  "  it  always  seems  to  me  peculiarly 
American  and  follows  the  flag.  The  smallest  of  our 
towns  has  a  paper,  if  it's  only  a  weekly." 

"  I'll  never  forget  the  poem  you  wrote  when  we 
were  youngsters  and  the  teacher  had  it  put  in  the 
Southbury  Sentinel,"  cried  Trent  with  an  almost  con- 
vulsive chuckle  of  amusement ;  "  'And  the  air  was  all 
darkened  with  vampires,  That  swam  in  the  shuddering 
breeze.' ' 

"  I  remember,"  he  answered.  "  I  should  be  tempted 
to  thrash  Jim  if  I  found  him  putting  on  any  such 
airs.  A  child  with  literary  ability  invariably  offends 
me.  In  fact,  I  am  beginning  to  perceive  a  mortifying 
resemblance  to  my  former  self  in  Tiggy." 

The  little  clean,  sparkling  street  looked  as  if  newly 
washed  in  that  wonderful  air.     In  the  morning  light 
it  was  soberly  industrious.     The  feverish  excitement, 
[55] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

the  recklessness  of  the  evening  before,  was  gone. 
The  shooting-gallery  and  saloons  were  still  open,  but 
were  as  yet  unfrequented,  and  those  shops  which  had 
been  dark  intervals  at  night,  serving  only  to  mark 
the  spaces  between  the  lighted  places  of  amusement, 
now  showed  an  open  and  attractive  face,  like  virtue 
waking  in  the  morning.  Suits  were  hung  in  front  of 
the  ready-made  clothing  store  and  a  glass  case  of 
jewelry  was  rolled  out  by  the  Jewish  proprietor.  The 
druggist  who  rented  part  of  his  shop  for  the  post- 
office  stood  in  his  doorway  talking  with  his  neighbor 
who  dealt  in  groceries,  chiefly  of  the  canned  variety. 
In  the  street  was  the  lazy  oxwain  of  the  ranchman, 
and  a  mounted  Mexican  went  by  towing  a  young  bull, 
which  kept  ducking  its  head  in  a  vain  resistance.  The 
gaiety  of  the  night  still  held  over,  fresher  and  more 
charming  because  of  the  morning  air;  the  spirit  of 
adventure  still  stirred  the  pulses,  and  the  mountains 
beckoned. 

"  I  never  was  in  such  a  cheerful  place  in  my  life," 
Trent  said  enthusiastically. 

They  turned  into  the  tobacco  shop,  which  was  built 
open  on  the  street  and  closed  at  night  by  a  lattice- 
work of  iron.  From  there  they  crossed  the  railroad 
track  and  struck  out  for  the  Indian  village,  which  was 
about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  away.  It  lay  low  and  level, 
an  irregular,  brownish  square  of  adobe  huts  in  the 
natural  mud-colour.  As  they  drew  near  they  passed 
[56] 


CHAPTER   FIVE 

the  small  farms  where  rude  attempts  at  irrigation  had 
been  made,  and  they  saw  an  Indian  following  a  plough 
and  ox.  Beyond  were  the  blue  castellated  mountains. 
The  scene,  in  its  primitive  simplicity,  was  Biblical. 

But  it  was  not  until  they  had  gone  beyond  the 
confines  of  the  village  that  Trent  saw  the  open  desert 
in  the  unbroken  sweep  of  its  wide  desolation.  It  was 
a  world  such  as  he  had  not  dreamed  of.  It  was  re- 
mote, and  indescribably  solitary.  In  the  moonlight 
this  solitude  had  seemed  mysterious.  Now  there  was 
no  mystery  beneath  the  blazing  sun,  and  the  earth  lay 
naked  and  unconcealed.  Lizards  and  horned  toads 
panted  on  the  burning  white  sands,  and  jack- rabbits 
skurried  away  at  their  approach.  Birds  with  droop- 
ing wings  guarded  their  young  from  the  mid-day  heat, 
for  often  the  low  growth  in  which  they  nested  was  too 
sparse  to  give  sufficient  shade.  It  was  a  land  of  fading 
blue  and  grey,  of  infinite  distances.  About  them  the 
grey  breast  of  the  desert  became  warmer-hued  as  they 
walked  through  an  arroyo  of  yellow  sand,  or  showed 
silvery  green  where  the  grease-wood  spread  it- 
self, fighting  for  life  against  the  burning  heat 
and  drought.  But,  however  the  brown  breast 
softened  to  their  approach,  always  that  sense  of 
merging  distance  intensified  until  the  mountains 
no  longer  dominated  the  scene,  but  became  gi- 
gantic waves  of  the  desolate  whole,  and  this 
effect  of  water  was  increased  by  the  wavering  vibra- 
[57] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

tions  of  heat  over  the  sands.  They  passed  strange 
cactus  growths,  and  the  wind  was  ever  lifting  the 
sand  in  miniature  whirls. 

"  Dust-devils,"  said  Lispenard,  noting  them. 

It  dawned  upon  Trent  that  he  and  his  companion 
had  not  spoken  for  a  long  while,  and  he  glanced  at 
him,  surprising  in  him  the  same  look  he  had  seen  in 
his  eyes  the  night  before — the  blue,  visionary  look  of 
a  man  inviolably  wedded  to  a  secret  passion. 

"  How  do  you  stand  it,  Lispenard?  "  he  asked  ab- 
ruptly. "  It's  desolation  itself.  There's  nothing 
green,  there's  no  colour  to  relieve  the  eye  in  this  dead 
level  of  monotony." 

"  My  dear  fellow,"  protested  his  friend,  "  do  you 
know  what  it  is  called?  The  painted  desert.  It  drips 
with  colour,  as  an  artist  would  express  it." 

"  You're  wrong,"  retorted  Trent  jovially. 
"  '  Drips  '  implies  moisture,  and  there's  none  here, 
except  in  that  bottle  you  brought  out  with  you.  Give 
me  a  sip  of  it." 

He  uncorked  the  bottle  and  put  it  to  his  lips.  The 
water  was  warm  and  flat.  "  I  never  tasted  any- 
thing so  delicious,"  he  said,  passing  it  back.  He  was 
conscious  of  no  fatigue;  his  buoyancy  even  increased 
with  the  heat.  He  swung  his  cane  at  a  huge  cactus 
thirty  feet  high,  having  small  purple  blossoms  and 
fluted  like  a  Greek  column ;  he  paused  to  wonder  at  the 
graceful  palo-verde,  whose  willow-like  stems  and 
[58] 


branches  were  bright  green,  but  having  no  leaves 
to  give  shade;  he  made  a  feint  at  a  jack-rabbit; 
he  raised  his  voice  and  shouted.  This  unfettered 
raising  of  his  big  voice  filled  him  with  childlike 
delight.  He  put  his  arm  about  his  companion's 
shoulders.  "  Why,  Lispenard,"  he  said,  "  I  haven't 
shouted  like  that  since  we  fellows  used  to  go  to 
the  swimming-pool.  Don't  you  remember  how  we 
youngsters  used  to  yell  and  holler  at  the  echo-rock, 
and  what  a  thrill  it  always  gave  us  to  hear  the  echo  of 
our  own  voice  coming  back  at  us  ?  You  talk  of  beauty 
here.  Man,  you're  enchanted !  Think  of  the  greenness 
there,  and  the  rippling  water,  and  that  old  rock  cov- 
ered with  moss !  I  shall  think  you're  hipped  if  you 
talk  about  beauty  in  this  great  waste." 

"  It  is  here,  though,  that  you  learn  to  love  nature ; 
here  at  the  sources,"  Lispenard  answered. 

"  Do  you  know  how  I  feel  ?  "  cried  Trent,  like  a 
boy.  "  I  feel  as  if  I  were  soaking  in  sunshine,  and  yet 
I'm  not  uncomfortably  hot." 

The  mountains  toward  which  their  steps  tended 
seemed  further  away  and  more  elusive  than  ever,  but 
he  no  longer  cared.  He  was  willing  to  walk  on  indefi- 
nitely. But  suddenly  the  rocky  heights  which  had 
seemed  so  far  rose  almost  in  front  of  them. 

"  The  nearness  of  an  object  can  be  as  deceptive  as 
though  it  were  remote.  The  air  is  always  weaving 
illusions,"  Lispenard  commented.  "  Those  mountains 
[59] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

are  the  sirens  of  the  desert.    Many  a  man  loses  his  life 
searching  for  fabled  mines  the  Spaniards  tell  of." 

They  began  to  climb  the  nearest  mountain,  follow- 
ing a  trail  which  was  many  centuries  old.  Halfway 
up,  they  heard  voices,  and  surprised  Miss  Armes  and 
Jim  spreading  out  their  lunch  in  the  shadow  of  a  big 
boulder. 

"  I  knew  I  heard  someone  coming  up,"  she  cried. 
She  was  laying  a  napkin  on  the  rocky  floor,  and  at  her 
side  was  a  basket.  Her  hat  was  tossed  aside;  her 
shining  hair  was  knotted  low  in  the  nape  of  her  neck, 
and  through  the  belt  of  her  linen  blouse  she  had  drawn 
a  spray  of  yellow-green  blossoms.  The  warmth  of 
noon  seemed  infused  into  her  personality,  and  her  eyes, 
which  he  had  thought  shadowed  and  sad  the  night  be- 
fore, now  looked  up  at  him  with  frank  friendliness. 

"  We  didn't  bring  lunch  enough  for  all,"  said  Jim 
sulkily.  It  didn't  seem  to  him  fair  that  after  his  pro- 
posed picnic  to  them  all  had  been  refused  they  should 
swoop  down  upon  him  now,  when  the  food  supply  was 
limited. 

"  Well,  the  Lord  may  send  down  manna  to  us,  then, 
you  unnatural  son,"  answered  his  father.  "  Jarvey. 
you  and  I  will  sit  down  with  our  bottle  of  water,  and 
watch  them  while  they  feast." 

Trent  laughed.  He  was  rather  pleased  than  other- 
wise by  the  boy's  sturdy  disapproval.  It  was  honest, 
if  not  hospitable. 

[60] 


CHAPTER   FIVE 

"  I  asked  everyone  to  come,  but  you  all  refused,'* 
Jim  continued,  as  he  watched  Miss  Armes  pile  up  the 
sandwiches.  "  I  guess  there's  enough,  though.  I've 
counted  three  apiece  all  around,  and  one  left  over." 

"  I  should  suggest  to  you  to  take  that  thirteenth 
one,  then,"  said  his  father,  "  only  it's  an  unlucky  num- 
ber. I  can't  advise  you  to  eat  it,  much  as  I'd  like  to 
see  you  enjoy  it." 

"  We  thought  we  would  go  up  to  the  old  fort  after 
lunch,"  said  Miss  Armes.  "  Is  that  where  you  are  go- 
ing?" 

"  No,"  he  answered ;  "  we  had  no  definite  plan,  so 
we  will  accept  yours  and  tag  along  after,  if  my  son 
will  permit."  He  was  in  his  most  charming  humour, 
more  youthful  than  ever  in  his  grey  suit,  retaining  a 
boyish  habit  of  tossing  his  head  when  talking,  that  he 
might  throw  back  the  lock  of  straight  blond  hair 
which  fell  persistently  over  his  forehead.  Time  seemed 
to  have  passed  him  by,  save  for  those  subtleties  of  ex- 
pression which  come  with  maturity  of  thought. 

Trent  missed  Mrs.  Lispenard  and  Tiggy.  After  a 
while  it  dawned  upon  him  that  he  was,  perhaps,  the 
only  person  in  the  little  party  who  did. 

The  mountain  encircled  them;  the  porphyry  rock 
rose  like  great  walls,  here  and  there  streaked  red,  again 
covered  with  the  yellowish  stain  of  a  hardy  lichen. 
Behind  them  was  a  cave,  where  the  water  collected  in 
the  early  spring.  The  creeping  wind  stirred  the  sand 
[61] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

heaped  on  its  floor,  and  showed  the  white  skeleton  of  a 
rabbit.  "  Some  wolf  lives  here,  I  guess,"  Jim  re- 
marked, noting  other  bones.  Above,  the  sky  was  tur- 
quoise. A  condor  sighted  the  little  group,  and  swept 
toward  them  on  a  long  incline,  then  verged  away  at  a 
shout  from  the  boy. 

They  watched  it  circling  away  on  seemingly  motion- 
less wings  until  it  became  a  black  speck  in  the  blue. 

"  I'd  like  to  have  killed  it,"  said  Jim  savagely. 

Miss  Armes  was  looking  up,  and  as  Trent  noticed 
her  lifted  profile  against  the  boulder  back  of  her  he 
understood  why  Mrs.  Lispenard  had  told  him  he  would 
grow  to  think  her  beautiful.  The  outline  of  her  fea- 
tures was  perfect.  But  he  felt  that  it  was  not  a  beauty 
to  stir  a  man's  pulses.  It  was  too  remote,  too  classical. 
She  was  a  woman  to  waken  wistful  longings  that 
touched  on  dreams.  He  felt  this  to  be  so,  although 
she  would  never  attract  him  personally.  Moved  by  a 
sudden  thought,  he  glanced  at  his  friend.  Lispenard's 
eyes  were  fixed  on  the  girl's  face  with  an  expression 
which  baffled  him.  It  might  have  been  only  the  con- 
tent any  beautiful  thing  inspires,  or  a  deeper  and  more 
personal  emotion.  But,  whichever  it  was,  the  pecul- 
iarity to  Trent  was  the  happiness  of  the  look. 

She  turned  to  them  both  with  a  smile.  "  I  can't 
help  believing  in  the  existence  of  spiritual  evil  when 
such  a  hideous  thing  as  that  bird  can  live  in  the  phys- 
ical world." 

[62] 


CHAPTER   FIVE 

"  There  was  a  time  when  I  argued  finely  that  every- 
thing had  beauty  which  expressed  perfectly  its  own 
peculiar  character,"  remarked  Lispenard,  selecting  a 
mellow  apricot  from  the  depths  of  the  lunch-basket. 
"  I  was  a  mush  of  religious  emotion  at  the  time,  and  I 
was  determined  to  see  beauty  in  everything  which  had 
fitness.  I've  quite  changed." 

"  I  believe  in  positive  sin  as  opposed  to  positive  vir- 
tue," Trent  joined  in.  "  No  one  can  deal  with  crim- 
inals as  I  have  had  occasion  to,  and  not  come  to  some 
such  conclusion.  Still,  I  never  saw  but  a  few  whom  I 
felt  were  hopelessly  bad.  It  wasn't  heredity  nor  acci- 
dent. It  was  actual  sinfulness."  His  face  became  stern. 
"  I  think  that  I  was  intellectually  just  in  such  cases, 
and  looked  only  at  the  particular  offence  for  which  the 
prisoner  was  committed,  but  the  temptation  was  to 
crush  him  to  the  fullest  limit  of  the  law.  It  was  the 
same  spirit  which  made  me  stone  snakes  when  a  boy." 

"  Don't !  "  said  Lispenard.  "  I'm  nerveless  when  it 
comes  to  killing.  I  get  weak." 

"  Yet  you  were  always  enthusiastic  over  war,"  an- 
swered Trent.  "  I  can  remember  that  when  you  were 
a  boy  you  used  to  pore  over  maps  of  battles.  At  one 
time  you  even  thought  of  entering  the  army." 

"  I  know  it,"  he  said.  "  That  was  because  I  scented 
glory  in  the  smoke  of  war." 

"  I'd  like  to  go  to  war,"  said  Jim.  This  was  the 
kind  of  conversation  he  enjoyed.  As  a  rule  the  so- 
[63] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

ciety  of  older  people  was  intolerably  dull  to  him.  The 
fact  that  Miss  Armes'  father  had  been  killed  in  an  In- 
dian outbreak  was  an  element  in  his  admiration  for 
her. 

"  Don't  think  I've  no  backbone,  Jarvey,"  Lispenard 
continued.  "  You're  the  born  judge,  but  it  isn't  in 
me.  I  feel  the  other  man's  position  too  keenly.  That's 
why  I  can't  buttonhole  a  reprobate  and  inquire  into 
the  state  of  his  soul,  and  condemn  him  if  he  doesn't 
mend  his  way." 

"  That's  all  self-indulgence  on  your  part,"  his 
friend  retorted.  "  Do  your  duty,  and  cut  off  their 
heads,  even  if  it  gives  you  a  qualm,  when  they  don't 
come  up  to  time.  Theodore,  you're  the  kind  of  man 
who'd  rather  let  a  man  kill  you  than  kill  him." 

Lispenard  admitted  this,  with  some  amusement. 
"  Unless  the  instinct  of  self-preservation  rose  superior 
to  my  real  desire." 

"  And  I'd  be  so  sure  the  right  was  on  my  side  that 
I'd  prefer  to  do  the  killing,"  said  Trent. 

"  You  can  just  bet  I  would,  too ! "  cried  Jim,  help- 
ing himself  to  the  thirteenth  sandwich.  His  appetite 
prevailed  against  his  discretion.  Cozzens  had  taught 
him  respect  for  superstitions,  arguing  that  if  man- 
kind had  held  to  them  so  many  years  there  must  be 
some  truth  in  them. 

He  felt  more  intimately  acquainted  with  the  big 
mine-owner  than  with  his  father,  who  puzzled  him. 
[64] 


CHAPTER   FIVE 

"  I'd  put  my  money  on  you,  though,  in  a  fight,"  he 
added  loyally. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Lispenard.  "  I  shall  try  to 
wear  my  blushing  honours  modestly.  May  your 
father  prove  to  you,  Jim,  that  he  is  a  man  of  muscle." 

While  they  were  talking  Miss  Armes  had  but  half 
listened.  She  sat  sideways,  resting  on  one  arm,  her 
hand  spread  flat  on  the  rock.  A  small  indigo  lizard 
was  playing  over  her  fingers. 

"  It  feels  the  warmth,"  she  said.  "  I  never  saw  one 
quite  as  deeply  blue.  It  must  take  its  purple  colour 
from  the  shadow  of  the  mountain  above  us."  As  her 
eyes  met  those  of  Trent  he  had  to  reconstruct  the 
mental  impression  he  had  already  formed  of  them: 
they  were  the  colour  of  the  lizard  creeping  over  her 
white  hand. 

"  If  we're  ever  going  to  go,"  said  Jim  impatiently, 
"  we  ought  to  be  going.  We've  been  hanging  around 
here  more  than  an  hour  doing  nothing." 

"  You  seem  to  have  finished  eating  only  just  now," 
his  father  suggested. 

"  That's  so,"  said  the  boy,  somewhat  abashed. 

"  Ah,  Nature  !  How  ungrateful  thy  children  are !  " 
Lispenard  cried.  "  No  sooner  are  we  fed  than  we 
forget  we  were  hungry.  It  is  significant  that  we 
never  say  grace  after  a  meal." 

"  What  I  like  about  a  picnic  is  that  you  never  have 
to  hear  grace  said,"  Jim  asserted. 
[65] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

"  And  this  from  a  clergyman's  son ! "  laughed 
Trent. 

Miss  Armes  drew  away  her  fingers  with  soft  reluc- 
tance, and  the  little  creature,  frightened,  slipped  into 
a  crevice  of  the  rock.  "  I  should  like  a  sapphire  neck- 
lace just  that  colour,"  she  said. 

Trent  smiled.  It  was  the  first  feminine  thing  he  had 
heard  her  say. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  she  asked,  perceiving  his  amuse- 
ment. "  Wouldn't  you  like  a  sapphire  necklace?  " 

"  Not  on  myself,"  he  answered,  laughing.  He  did 
not  wonder  that  Lispenard  thought  her  beautiful. 

She  repacked  the  basket,  and  Lispenard  took  it. 
"  I  suppose  I  ought  to  make  Jim  carry  it,  but  a  boy 
is  so  much  more  burdened  by  such  a  thing  than  an 
older  person.  Look!  There  is  that  lizard  again,  out 
on  that  bit  of  rock.  It  has  lost  its  colour." 

Trent  had  to  look  sharply  before  he  could  see  it. 
Then  he  saw  its  tiny  bright  eyes,  whose  glitter  seemed 
almost  evil.  Its  skin  was  mottled,  dull,  and  wrinkled. 
He  wondered,  with  sudden  repulsion,  how  she  could 
have  let  it  play  over  her  fingers. 

The  afternoon  became  almost  unending  to  him.  He 
was  more  depressed  by  Adele's  absence  than  inspired 
by  the  company.  His  loyalty  to  her  made  him  resent- 
ful of  their  unconcern.  He  felt  that  she  should  have 
been  with  them  instead  of  this  girl,  and  he  experi- 
enced a  deepening  disapproval  of  the  situation,  a  dis- 
[66] 


CHAPTER    FIVE 

approval  which  centred  finally  on  Miss  Amies.  He 
had  known  many  women,  none  intimately,  but  all  suf- 
ficiently well  to  have  been  impressed  with  their  general 
conventional  delicacy.  It  seemed  to  him  that  she 
lacked  in  that  modest  propriety  which  was  to  be  ex- 
pected in  a  woman  of  her  class.  She  should  not  be 
willing  to  remain  the  greater  part  of  the  day  on  a 
mountain-top  in  the  company  of  a  boy,  a  young  mar- 
ried man  who  did  not  conceal  his  evident  attraction 
toward  her,  and  a  third  person  who  was  almost  a 
stranger.  He  corrected  his  first  judgment.  After  all, 
it  was  they  who  had  followed  her,  and  it  was  not  to  be 
expected  that  she  should  give  up  her  plans  for  the 
mere  accident  of  their  arrival.  But  her  beauty  faded 
in  the  light  of  his  keen  observation,  until  he  felt  that 
those  moments  when  in  the  shadow  of  the  rock  she  had 
appeared  so  to  him  had  been  a  delusion,  like  the  colour 
of  the  lizard.  The  dislike  he  had  taken  the  evening  be- 
fore bridged  across  that  impulse  of  liking,  and  filled 
him  with  distrust.  He  remembered  how  he  had  en- 
countered the  watchful  regard  of  her  pale,  oval  face 
beyond  the  glow  of  the  lamp.  He  distrusted  a  watch- 
ful person.  It  was  a  maxim  with  him  that  a  disingen- 
uous man  was  unsuspicious. 

He  saw  that  she  felt  the  growing  change  in  him, 
and  several  times  he  met  her  gaze,  no  longer  watchful, 
but  timid,    the    gaze    of    an    indulged    woman    who 
wonders  at  any  man's  disapproval  of  her. 
[67] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

They  wandered  about  the  rocky  floor,  which  they 
reached  after  a  long  climb.  It  had  once  been  an  Aztec 
fort,  and  was  one  of  the  last  records  to  mark  the  end 
of  a  civilisation  long  dead.  Lispenard  pointed  out 
the  ancient  trail  going  on  still  further;  the  loosened 
boulders  which  must  once  have  marked  a  wall;  some 
half-obliterated  drawings  on  the  solid  rock,  of  lizards 
and  snakes  and  birds.  Trent  was  dizzy  in  that  rare- 
fied air.  The  snow  on  distant  mountain-peaks,  shin- 
ing in  the  sun  against  the  blue,  dazzled  him ;  but  his 
friend's  eyes  were  as  bright  and  alert  as  those  of  an 
eagle.  He  was  glad  when  they  both  sat  down  near 
the  crumbling,  ancient  wall,  and  lit  their  cigars. 

"  I  must  admit  that  too  much  of  anything  like  this 
makes  me  melancholy,"  he  said.  "  It  is  too  far  re- 
moved from  the  life  of  to-day  to  be  cheerful." 

"  I  think  the  remote  past  is  always  cheerful  and  in- 
spiring," said  Lispenard.  "  It  is  the  near  past  that  is 
depressing.  What  could  seem  farther  away  and  sad- 
der than  the  youth  of  our  parents?  We  feel  that  we 
never  could  go  far  enough  back  to  touch  their  lives 
then.  I  remember  I  used  to  feel  that  keenly  as  a 
child." 

They  puffed  contentedly  at  their  cigars.  In  the  se- 
rene present  the  remote  past  of  which  he  spoke  seemed 
of  no  more  value  than  that  past  which  was  nearer. 
They  looked  at  each  other  and  laughed,  like  two  boys, 
and  Trent  blew  smoke-rings  of  a  perfection  which 
[68] 


CHAPTER    FIVE 

had  made  him  famous  in  his  undergraduate  days. 
Miss  Armes  and  Jim  had  followed  the  trail  farther 
up  the  mountain,  and  they  were  alone. 

"  Can't  you  imagine  how  an  eagle  must  feel  ?  "  Lis- 
penard  asked.  "  Haven't  you  seen  the  eagle  type  in 
people?  It  is  always  a  fine  type.  Major  Armes  was 
that  kind  of  man,  fierce  and  grey  as  an  old  eagle,  and 
a  born  fighter.  It  would  have  broken  his  heart  to  die 
in  his  bed.  I  think  his  daughter  knew  this,  for  she 
never  took  the  death  of  her  father  as  tragically  as 
might  have  been  expected.  He  died  in  that  awful  mas- 
sacre some  years  back,  you  remember.  He  was  primi- 
tive, with  all  his  worldliness,  primitive  as  an  In- 
dian." 

"  I  think  it  always  takes  primitive  people  to  name 
their  children  after  trees  or  States  or  famous  gener- 
als," Trent  commented,  flicking  the  ash  from  his  ci- 
gar. "  I  have  a  client,  a  woman,  whose  father  named 
her  Stonewall  Jackson;  and  don't  you  remember  old 
man  Stickney,  in  our  town,  who  named  his  sons  One, 
Two,  and  Three  Stickney?  Mrs.  Lispenard  was  tell- 
ing me  last  night  that  Yucca  was  the  name  of  some 
tree  out  here." 

His  companion  nodded.  "  I  have  in  mind  a  poem," 
he  said,  turning  his  bright  eyes  upon  his  friend. 
"  The  subject  is  the  eagle.  I  have  the  conception,  but 
I  can't  rise  to  it  in  expression.  Well,  it  is  better  to 
fall  short  of  my  best  than  to  content  myself  with  an 
[69] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

exploitation  of  mere  cleverness  which  might  bring  in 
money  and  cheap  notoriety,  like  a  merely  popular 
novel,  and  even  rhyming.  And  there  is  nothing  more 
injurious  to  a  man's  development  than  hack-work.  It 
takes  the  bloom  from  his  genius.  And  sometimes  I 
have  thought  genius  is  just  that  delicate  bloom  so 
easily  gone.  You  understand  ?  " 

His  friend  made  no  reply.  Lispenard,  present,  de- 
prived him  of  the  power  to  make  those  practical  sug- 
gestions which  he  knew  would  come  to  him  when  away. 
The  man  had  the  gift  of  making  Trent's  own  solid 
world  dissolve,  becoming  unsubstantial,  forming  itself 
into  evanescent  beauty  through  whose  divine  expan- 
sion riches  and  worldly  success,  weighted  by  their  own 
grossness,  sank.  He  wondered  now  if  even  Adele  al- 
ways understood  her  own  husband — if  there  were  not 
moments  when  she  must  feel  strangely  baffled. 

Miss  Armes  and  Jim  were  returning.  They  heard 
their  voices  before  they  appeared. 

"  I  have  often  wondered  why  it  is  that  there  should 
be  so  many  perfect  flowers,  although  the  botanists  tell 
us  not,  I  believe, — stupid,  meddling  fellows, — and  so 
seldom  a  beautiful  face.  I  suppose  it  is  because  our 
souls  make  our  bodies,"  said  Lispenard. 

"  You  argue  ill  for  those  of  us  who  are  not  hand- 
some," he  answered  shortly.  "  I  have  known  some  hid- 
eous saints." 

"  How  unpleasant !  "  Lispenard  exclaimed.  "  Here 
[70] 


CHAPTER   FIVE 

they  come.  We  heard  your  voices  before  you  ap- 
peared. What  mystery  there  is  in  a  hidden  voice !  It 
is  a  subject  for  romance.  Did  anyone  ever  fall  in  love 
with  his  own  echo,  as  Narcissus  did  with  his  face?  I 
don't  suppose  a  great  singer  really  hears  his  own  voice 
as  we  do.  I  am  going  to  bequeath  to  Tiggy  a  book 
which  shall  contain  the  titles  of  the  books  his  father 
had  in  mind  to  write.  What  did  you  find  up  there?  " 

"  Nothing,"  said  Jim,  disgusted.  "  It  just  ended 
halfway  up  to  the  top.  Let's  go  home  now.  Cozzens 
is  coming  back  to-day.  Come  on.  I'm  first  down." 

"  We  did  find  this,  however,  and  I  thought  the  trail 
might  commence  again  farther  up,  but  we  were  get- 
ting tired,"  said  Miss  Armes.  She  extended  her  palm 
to  show  Lispenard  a  flint  arrow-head.  It  was  not  her 
voice  nor  her  expression  which  betrayed  her  to  Trent. 
It  was  an  almost  ineffable  gentleness  of  manner,  as  dif- 
ficult to  define  as  if  a  flower  should  give  its  fragrance. 
A  pain  ran  through  his  heart,  for  the  incident  re- 
minded him  of  that  time  when  he  had  seen  another 
woman  maintain  the  same  attitude  toward  his  friend, 
and  his  own  happiness  had  gone  out.  He  did  not 
blame  Lispenard,  nor  was  he  resentful,  although  he 
had  wondered  that  a  man  who  had  so  little  of  the 
physical  about  him  should  be  so  irresistible  to  women. 
But,  knowing  his  friend  as  he  did,  he  had  grown  to 
think  that  it  spoke  well  for  the  innocence  and  sweet- 
ness of  women  that  this  should  be  so.  It  was  the  re- 
[71] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

gard  women  were  always  eager  to  bestow  upon  a  spir- 
itual leader,  just  as  men  were  apt  to  be  more  aggres- 
sive and  to  question  such  a  right  in  another  man. 

"  Look  at  Jim !  "  cried  Lispenard,  as  they  started 
down.  "  He'll  beat  us.  Every  healthy  boy  is  always 
anxious  to  win  out,  even  if  he  is  obliged  to  delude 
himself  into  an  imagined  race."  He  took  the  lead. 
"  Look  out  for  loose  boulders !  "  he  shouted  back. 

His  warning  came  a  second  too  late.  Miss  Armes 
slipped,  and  would  have  fallen  had  not  Trent  caught 
her  arm. 

"  How  awkward  of  me !  "  she  cried.  "  I  don't  know 
when  I  ever  slipped  before.  I  think  it  was  an  uncon- 
scious acting  on  suggestion."  She  glanced  up  at  him, 
laughing.  He  held  her  arm  as  though  she  were  a  cul- 
prit. His  face  was  stern.  He  was  thinking  of  Adele, 
and  that  he  missed  her. 

A  blush  succeeded  her  amazement  at  his  manner. 
She  withdrew  her  arm  and  stepped  ahead  of  him,  that 
she  might  walk  alone,  nor  did  she  once  look  back  at 
him  the  rest  of  the  way  down.  It  was  not  until  they 
reached  the  bottom,  where  the  triumphant  Jim  awaited 
them,  that  he  met  her  look  again,  and  then  he  was 
stirred  out  of  his  abstraction.  Any  timid  wonder  at  his 
disapproval  was  gone.  He  had  a  swift  conviction 
that  her  father's  blood  spoke  in  that  look.  But  her 
expression  changed  instantly  to  its  accustomed  gentle- 
ness, and  she  made  some  courteous,  indifferent  speech 
[72] 


CHAPTER   FIVE 

about  it  being  later  than  they  had  realised.  It  was  as 
though  his  lapse  were  too  unimportant  to  disturb  her 
good  breeding. 

However  courteous  and  hospitable  she  might  be  to 
him  in  the  future,  it  would  be  for  the  sake  of  his 
friends,  not  for  his  own.  He  knew  instinctively  that 
she  disliked  him,  knew  it  as  he  did  when  he  decided  in 
court  against  a  woman.  She  was  like  her  sex,  resent- 
ing as  presumptuous  any  judgment  of  them  from  a 
man. 

It  was  nearing  sunset  as  they  started  home  across 
the  desert.  The  world  was  becoming  fairyland. 
Crepe-like  veils  of  pink  and  blue  and  violet  were  be- 
ing woven  in  the  air.  The  mountains,  so  dull,  so  mo- 
notonous to  their  approach,  were  beginning  to  take  on 
great  splashes  of  purple.  Deep  clefts  appeared,  and 
the  tops  rose  magnificently. 

Wistful,  bewildered  thoughts  disturbed  him,  the 
thoughts  almost  of  youth :  "  those  beautiful  days  when 
I  was  so  unhappy  !  "  He  remembered  with  a  half -smile 
the  words  of  the  famous  Frenchwoman.  He  could 
hear  the  steady  conversation  of  Miss  Armes  and  his 
friend.  Brilliant  as  he  knew  it  to  be,  he  preferred  the 
sturdy  silence  of  Jim,  tramping  along  at  his  side. 
The  day  had  started  happily.  He  felt  desperately 
lonely.  He  could  think  of  no  one  save  Adele,  and  this 
with  deep  longing,  as  though  she  were  once  more  the 
sweetheart  of  his  youth.  This  one  day  had  seemed 
[73] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

longer  away  from  her  than  the  fifteen  years  that  had 
become  so  short  since  their  meeting. 

They  neared  the  little  town,  mellow  and  brown  in 
the  level  rays  of  the  sun.  It  already  had  a  homelike 
look  to  him.  He  could  see  the  red  tiled  roofs,  the  sug- 
gestion of  green  the  trees  gave,  the  small  spirals  of 
smoke  from  many  hearths.  There  Adele  awaited  their 
return. 


CHAPTER   VI 

HE  did  not  return  with  Lispenard  to  supper. 
"  I  may  stay  some  time,  and  I  am  not  going  to 
become  a  burden  on  your  wife,"  he  told  him. 
"  You  will  see  me  later  in  the  evening.  I  have  made 
arrangements  for  my  meals  at  Campi's." 

The  long  desert  twilight  had  passed  into  the  moonlit 
night  when  he  finally  arrived  to  find  them  waiting  for 
him  on  the  porch  of  the  little  home  nestling  in  the 
shadow  of  the  old  mission. 

"  The  boys  left  good-night  for  you,"  Adele  said. 
"  I  was  cruel  enough  to  make  them  go  to  bed  before 
you  came.  It  is  nearly  nine  o'clock.  Jim  was  so  tired 
he  went  right  to  sleep." 

Lispenard  laughed.  "  Sit  down,  Jarvey,"  he  said. 
He  continued  to  puff  at  his  pipe,  his  eyes  bright  with 
amusement.  Several  nights  before,  he  thought,  he 
had  seen  Jim  hurrying  home  from  Haydon's  after  ten 
o'clock.  He  said  nothing  of  this  the  next  morning. 
He  had  done  the  same  thing  himself  when  young. 

"  Isn't  that  a  picture  for  you,  Trent?  "  he  asked. 

The  silver  light  had  struck  the  roof  and  bell-turret 
of  Santa  Ines.  The  pale,  phosphorescent  outline  was 
indescribably  beautiful,  and  as  they  watched  it  a 
[75], 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

belated  dove  fluttered  home  to  its  nest  in  the  old  mis- 
sion. 

"Shan't  we  go  over  to  see  Miss  Armes?"  Adele 
asked.  Supper  had  been  so  late  that  she  had  missed 
the  excitement  of  going  for  the  mail,  and  she  was  rest- 
less because  of  the  long  day  at  home. 

"  Does  she  live  far?  "  her  guest  asked  reluctantly. 
"  I  think  it  is  delightful  here." 

"  I  know  it,  but  it  will  soon  be  too  cold  to  sit  out 
longer,"  she  answered.  "  She  lives  about  a  block  down 
the  street.  I  want  you  to  see  her  home,  too.  It  is  said 
to  be  the  handsomest  adobe  house  in  the  State.  It  is 
built  in  the  old  Spanish  style  and  has  an  inner  court. 
Her  father  died  after  it  was  completed.  He  never  en- 
joyed it  much,  poor  man !  " 

"  Does  she  live  alone  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  She  has  an  aunt  who  sometimes  visits  her  in  the 
winter,  and  they  have  always  kept  an  old  Mexican 
housekeeper,  a  disagreeable,  miserly  creature,  al- 
though they  say  she  comes  of  a  fine  old  family,  and  I 
must  admit  she  is  really  devoted  to  Yucca.  Then,  too, 
she  makes  a  pet  of  Tiggy,  and  bakes  him  sweet 
cakes." 

"  She  seems  young  to  live  alone  like  that,"  was  his 
comment. 

"  Oh,  she's  not  so  young !  "  she  retorted  impatiently. 
Then  she  dimpled  and  laughed.  "  Am  I  not  horrid, 
Jarvey  ?  But  then  I  get  so  provoked  with  her  to  live 
[76] 


CHAPTER     SIX 

alone  like  that  when  she  could  travel.  You  know  she's 
rich.  I  actually  believe  she  loves  the  desert!  Let  us 
go,"  she  added,  rising.  "  Don't  you  feel  the  chill  be- 
ginning to  creep  into  the  air !  " 

"  There  isn't  any  chill  at  all,"  her  husband  pro- 
tested, "  but  she'll  never  admit  anything  is  right  out 
here  in  the  desert." 

"  Then  why  did  you  bring  me  to  it?  "  she  cried  tri- 
umphantly, as  though  her  question  were  the  only  ar- 
gument possible.  She  put  her  arm  affectionately 
about  his  shoulder.  Deep  in  her  heart  she  was  repent- 
ant of  her  bitter  mood  toward  him  earlier  in  the  day. 
"  Aren't  you  coming,  dear?  " 

"  Adele  is  the  only  person  who  ever  makes  me  feel 
cross,"  he  said  humourously.  He  kept  hold  of  her 
hand.  "  Did  the  moon  ever  shine  more  radiantly  than 
it  does  now  on  Santa  Ines?  Trent,  when  you  marry 
be  sure  that  you  and  your  wife  agree  in  taste,  and  it 
won't  seriously  matter  if  your  ideas  of  morality 
differ." 

"  Good  morality  is  only  another  expression  of  good 
taste,"  she  said. 

"  Oh !  "  he  groaned,  "  did  you  ever  hear  such  hope- 
less shallowness?  Come,  let  us  go  before  you  mortify 
me  further.  Yes,  I've  locked  the  door.  Don't  ask  me 
to  go  and  try  it  again.  I  won't." 

"  You  see,  Jarvey,"  coaxingly,  "  Theodore  doesn't 
appreciate  my  anxiety  about  the  children." 
[77] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

"  She's  afraid  someone  may  steal  Jim,"  Lispenard 
said,  with  a  chuckle,  as  his  friend  went  up  obediently 
and  proved  the  door  to  be  locked. 

The  three  walked  abreast  down  the  quiet  street,  and 
turned  in  at  the  rose-arbour  which  led  from  Miss 
Armes's  gate  to  the  front  door. 

"  How  we  love  the  elusive,"  Lispenard  cried, 
throwing  back  his  head.  "  I  see  the  moon  glancing 
through  the  leaves,  and  I  am  filled  with  witchery." 

His  wife,  half  pausing  to  follow  the  example  his 
words  suggested,  was  suddenly  conscious  of  Trent's 
nearness  in  the  close  arbour.  The  little  while  he  had 
been  seated  next  to  her  on  their  steps  that  evening  had 
enveloped  her  in  an  atmosphere  of  tenderness,  a 
going-out,  as  it  were,  of  his  whole  being  to  her  for 
sympathy.  She  had  met  his  wistful  eyes  in  the  moon- 
light. The  subtle  femininity  of  her  own  nature  rec- 
ognised the  change  the  day  had  wrought  in  him,  and 
wondered.  The  scent  of  the  roses  was  sweet ;  she  saw 
the  moon  through  the  leaves ;  the  witchery  of  girlhood 
blew  like  a  breath  across  her  spirit.  Her  husband's 
voice  sounded  distant.  She  was  touched  and  softened 
by  the  romance  of  Trent's  long  devotion. 

There  was  no  response  to  her  knock.  She  entered 
and  led  the  way  down  a  dim  hall. 

"  Yucca,"  she  called,  "  are  you  there  ?  " 

Miss  Armes  opened  the  door  at  the  further  end, 
and  her  graceful  figure  struck  Trent  with  a  sense  of 
[78] 


CHAPTER     SIX 

familiarity.  "  We  were  sure  you  would  come,"  she 
said.  "  Did  you  knock?  I  fear  we  were  so  busy 
talking  I  didn't  hear  you.  Good  evening,  Mr. 
Trent." 

She  gave  him  her  hand  cordially.  "  Here  is  Mr. 
Cozzens.  If  you  did  not  come  in  he  was  going  to  drop 
around  later  at  Mrs.  Lispenard's  and  meet  you.  We 
all  expect  to  share  our  guests  out  here,  you  see." 

Mr.  Cozzens  rose  from  the  chair  in  which  he  had 
been  seated,  smoking  a  cigar,  and  shook  hands  heartily 
with  Trent. 

"  I  suppose  you've  heard  the  little  chaps  speak  of 
me.  I'm  taking  a  hand  in  their  education  same  as 
their  father.  I'm  given  to  understand  by  Yucca,  here, 
that  you're  an  old  friend."  His  voice  had  a  husky 
drawl  that  was,  somehow,  impossibly  pleasant. 

"  When  did  you  get  back  from  the  mines  ?  "  Mrs. 
Lispenard  asked  him,  as  she  arranged  herself  com- 
fortably in  a  hammock  hung  across  the  room. 

"  I  swung  in  to-night,"  he  answered,  resuming  his 
seat.  His  weight  disguised  his  real  height,  and  his 
light  clothes  intensified  this  look  of  bulk,  but  Trent 
recognised  a  type  in  him,  and  knew  that  the  muscles 
were  like  steel  beneath  that  almost  babyish  rotundity 
of  face  and  figure.  His  sandy  hair  was  cut  in  a 
comely  bang  across  his  forehead,  and  he  wore  the 
drooping  moustache  of  the  typical  cowboy.  His  eyes 
were  remarkable,  full  and  grey,  narrowed  by  long 
[79] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

squinting  at  a  shadowless  landscape,  their  dominant 
expression  one  of  command. 

Lispcnard  began  turning  over  some  magazines  and 
books  on  the  table.  "  I  am  looking  for  that  review 
you  spoke  of  to-day." 

"  It  is  right  under  your  hand,"  Miss  Armes  an- 
swered. "  The  page  is  folded  out,  isn't  it?  " 

"  Wouldn't  you  all  like  to  hear  it?  "  he  asked,  seat- 
ing himself. 

"  Oh,  dear,"  murmured  his  wife,  "  I  thought  we 
were  going  to  talk." 

"  Go  on,"  said  Cozzens,  turning  in  his  chair  so  as  to 
face  the  reader  squarely. 

She  gave  him  an  irritated  look,  then  seeing  that 
Trent  was  watching  her  she  pouted  like  a  pretty  child, 
and  finally,  filled  with  delicious  humour  at  her  own 
absurd  affectation,  hid  her  face  in  the  pillows  she  had 
piled  in  the  hammock,  and  laughed  outright. 

Cozzens  looked  at  her  indulgently.  "  She's  no  older 
than  Jim,"  he  remarked,  with  husky  pleasantry. 

Lispenard  read  well.  He  had  the  full  and  sympa- 
thetic intonation  of  the  born  speaker.  But  Trent 
made  only  a  pretence  of  listening.  The  room  and  its 
occupants  distracted  his  attention.  The  lamp  shed  a 
soft  glow  and  a  fire  burned  on  the  hearth,  and  yet  it 
seemed  to  him  that  the  light  was  unusual,  until  he 
thought  that  the  bright  sunshine  of  his  day  on  the 
desert  had  affected  his  eyes  somewhat.  The  room  in- 
[80] 


CHAPTER     SIX 

terested  him.  It  was  less  homelike  than  the  Lispe- 
nards',  but  more  richly  furnished.  He  had  an  im- 
pression of  Mexican  colouring  in  the  suggested  orange 
and  vermilion  tones.  He  noted  the  crossed  sabres  on 
the  wall  above  the  mantle,  and  looked  about  to  see  if 
there  were  a  picture  of  the  old  major. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  his  hostess  enquired,  speaking  low, 
so  as  not  to  interrupt  the  reading. 

"  Nothing ;  I  was  merely  looking  to  see  if  there 
were  a  picture  of  your  father,"  he  answered. 

"  It  is  in  the  other  room,"  she  said.  She  was 
pleased,  and  he  thought  she  looked  at  him  for  the  first 
time  with  liking.  He  watched  her  as  she  resumed  her 
basket-weaving.  "  I  learned  how  to  make  baskets  from 
the  Indians,"  she  said.  She  was  seated  on  a  divan  that 
ran  across  the  side  of  the  room  opposite  him.  The  long 
strands  of  straw  trailed  from  her  lap  to  the  bottom  of 
her  dress,  and  there  was  a  bundle  of  it  on  the  seat  be- 
side her.  Her  face  was  pale  above  the  tan  straw, 
pale  and  subtly  reserved,  full  of  artistic  power,  more 
youthful  than  feminine,  recalling  again  his  first  im- 
pression, that  she  might  have  sat  for  the  portrait  of 
one's  ideal  poet  or  painter  in  his  early  promise.  But 
for  himself,  he  admired  women  like  Adele,  women  who 
were  childlike  in  their  maturity,  frank,  open-hearted, 
sunny.  Yet  how  pale  she  was !  The  walk  and  long 
climb  that  day  had  been  too  much.  He  softened  chiv- 
alrously as  he  noted  Cozzens's  contrasting  ruddi- 
[81] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

ness;  even  Lispenard's  pallor  was  healthful,  and,  he 
thought  tenderly,  without  looking  at  her,  that  Adele's 
cheeks  were  pink  and  warm  as  when  she  was  a 
girl. 

"  I  am  disappointed  in  it,"  Lispenard  remarked,  as 
he  finished  the  article  and  flung  the  paper  down.  "  It 
is  a  tangle  of  platitudes." 

"  No  wonder  I  felt  as  if  I  were  still  out  of  doors ! " 
cried  Trent  suddenly.  He  had  finally  realised  that 
the  wall  above  the  divan  was  of  glass,  like  a  great  win- 
dow, and  that  the  long  silken  curtains  were  pushed 
back  to  show  the  sky.  It  was  no  wonder  that  she  had 
looked  pale  against  that  background  of  intense  blue 
air.  "  I  have  been  wondering  and  wondering  what 
was  the  matter  with  my  eyes,  and  hadn't  observed  that 
the  wall  was  glass."  Trent,  sober,  was  the  frowning 
judge;  laughing,  he  was  a  great  boy. 

"  It  was  my  own  idea,"  she  commenced,  when  Coz- 
zens  interrupted  her. 

"  Yes,  you  can  bet  it  was  her  own  idea,"  he  said, 
flinging  a  handful  of  cigars  hospitably  on  the  table 
toward  the  two  men  and  lighting  himself  a  fresh  one. 
He  was  economical  with  matches,  and  he  held  a  burnt 
one  over  the  lamp-chimney  until  it  ignited.  "  Yes, 
sir,"  puffing,  "  she  came  to  me  and  said, '  Cozzens,  I've 
got  a  damned  good  idea — 

"  I  didn't,  either !  "  she  cried.  "  I  merely  asked  him 
if  he  didn't  think  it  would  be  splendid  to  sit  within 
[82] 


CHAPTER     SIX 

doors  and  yet  be  able  to  see  the  desert  when  these 
nights  are  so  wonderful." 

i  "I  know  it's  beautiful  and  I  know  it's  unusual," 
said  Mrs.  Lispenard,  "  but  I  don't  like  it.  I  don't 
think  it  is  homelike.  I  like  to  draw  the  curtains  and 
have  the  boys  playing  about  and  Theodore  reading. 
That  is  the  only  time  when  the  world  is  quite  shut  out, 
the  only  time  I  don't  have  the  desert  before  my 
eyes." 

While  they  were  speaking  the  rising  moon  sent  a 
ray  of  light  into  the  room.  It  fell  on  the  girl's  hair, 
and  its  phosphorescent  glow  recalled  to  Lispenard  the 
rising  light  they  had  been  watching  on  the  old  mis- 
sion. 

"  Santa  Ines,"  he  said,  smiling,  his  eyes  as  intense 
in  their  blueness  as  the  brilliant  air  outside. 

The  girl's  white  profile  grew  unreal.  The  silver 
moonlight  slipped  to  her  hands  weaving  the  yellow 
straw. 

"  You  remind  me  of  a  fairy  tale  I  read  in  a  book  I 
bought  for  my  little  niece  last  Christmas,  and  it  was 
so  long  since  I  had  read  such  a  story  that  it  made  quite 
an  impression  on  me,"  said  Trent.  "  I  don't  remem- 
ber it  in  detail.  You  would  probably  remember  it, 
Theodore,"  turning  to  his  friend.  "  It  was  about  a 
miller  who  sold  his  beautiful  daughter  to  the  Evil 
One " 

"  I  think  «  Evil  One '  is  so  delightful,"  put  in  Lis- 
[83] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

penard.     "  The    proper    fairy    stories    always    have 
him  in." 

"  And  the  Evil  One  cut  off  both  her  hands.  Then 
the  King  came  along  and  saw  her  in  the  garden  eating 
fruit  from  the  trees  with  her  mouth,  for  of  course  she 
had  no  hands.  But  he  married  her  and  had  a  pair  of 
silver  hands  made  for  her.  Tiggy  must  have  it  in  some 
book  of  his,"  ended  Trent,  looking  at  Adele. 

"  I  don't  remember  it,"  she  answered. 

Surprised  at  her  tone,  he  glanced  closely  at  her, 
and  saw  that  her  colour  was  feverishly  bright  and  her 
eyes  wet  with  unshed  tears.  He  knew  instinctively 
that  she  was  hurt  and  jealous.  He  had  guessed  her 
resentment  of  the  girl's  beauty,  and  knew  that  she 
must  now  feel  he  had  joined  with  Lispenard  in  admir- 
ing her.  Her  pained  humiliation  went  to  his  heart. 
He  longed  to  convey  his  loyalty  and  devotion  by  a 
look,  a  gesture,  some  mere  ordinary  word.  He  could 
not  bear  to  have  her  suffer.  She  was  like  a  grieving 
child.  But  he  did  not  suggest  his  sympathy  in  any 
way,  and  the  denial  was  like  a  physical  wrench. 

"  I  am  tired,"  she  said,  rising ;  "  I  must  go." 

"  No,"  said  Cozzens,  "  don't  go  yet.  Don't  you 
want  to  hear  my  new  song?  I  got  it  from  a  Mexican 
at  the  mines." 

Her  husband  looked  up  in  some  surprise.  "  It  isn't 
eleven  o'clock  yet,"  drawing  out  his  watch  as  he 
spoke. 

[84] 


CHAPTER     SIX 

She  hesitated,  then  yielded,  and  resumed  her  place 
in  the  hammock. 

"  She  has  times  when  she  gets  anxious  about  those 
two  little  chaps,"  said  Cozzens.  "  Lord  bless  you, 
who'd  hurt  them?" 

She  smiled  faintly.     "  Tiggy  is  such  a  baby  yet." 

Trent's  heart  was  aching.  She  had  never  been  more 
lovable  to  him  than  in  the  emotions  through  which 
he  saw  her  pass,  the  jealous  hurt,  the  impulse  to  leave, 
her  womanly  yielding  for  fear  she  would  spoil  the 
others'  pleasure ;  her  accepting  Cozzens's  remark  about 
the  children,  in  her  pride,  lest  her  real  motive  for  wish- 
ing to  go  might  be  guessed. 

Cozzens  was  strumming  on  Miss  Armes's  mandolin, 
picking  out  a  tune  to  which  he  sang  a  song  in  the  Mex- 
ican patois.  He  had  a  rich,  throaty  voice,  and  the 
little  song  was  gay.  It  cleared  the  atmosphere  of  the 
room. 

Miss  Armes  rose  and  drew  the  long  curtains  to- 
gether. 

"  I  know  you  don't  like  so  much  moonlight,"  she 
said,  and  Mrs.  Lispenard  thanked  her  with  a  smile. 

"  I  know  I  am  foolish,"  she  murmured,  her  dimples 
restored. 

"  This  side  of  the  room  leads  into  the  court,"  con- 
tinued Miss  Armes,  rising ;  "  come  and  see,  Mr.  Trent. 
It  is  scarcely  warm  enough  to  sit  out  there  to-night." 

He  followed  her  through  the  door  she  opened,  and 
[85] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

found  himself  in  a  narrow  corridor  with  a  colonnade, 
the  slim  pillars  of  which  ended  in  arches  at  the  top  in 
the  Moorish  style.  This  corridor  ran  about  the  four 
sides  of  a  small  court. 

He  had  an  impression  of  tropical  luxuriance.  He 
heard  the  splash  of  spray  in  the  basin  of  a  fountain, 
and  saw  the  white  blossoms  of  the  magnolia. 

"  This  is  like  the  fairy-story,"  he  remarked.  "  It 
must  have  been  in  some  such  garden  as  this  that  the 
miller's  daughter  walked  and  ate  from  the  trees." 

"  Yes,"  she  rejoined,  "  my  father  planted  pome- 
granates and  figs  and  olives  and  apricots.  The  apri- 
cots we  had  at  luncheon  to-day  came  from  here.  Did 
you  know  you  all  forgot  the  rest  of  that  story?  The 
king  became  jealous  and  sent  the  poor  maiden  away, 
but  at  last  he  repented,  for  he  saw  he  had  been  de- 
ceived by  the  Evil  One.  So  he  went  in  search  of  her, 
and  when  he  found  her,  her  two  white  hands  had  grown 
again,  by  the  grace  of  God,  so  that  she  did  not  need 
the  silver  ones  any  more." 

Within,  Cozzens  was  humming  his  gay  serenade. 
The  tinkle  of  the  mandolin  blended  with  the  falling 
spray  of  the  fountain.  Trent's  pulses  were  stirred. 
An  ineffable  sweetness  was  in  the  air,  and  he  was  con- 
scious of  the  girl  beside  him,  strange  and  beautiful 
mistress  of  this  strange  house  and  garden! 

"  You  like  that  little  Mexican  song,  don't  you, 
Jarvey  ?  "  called  Mrs.  Lispenard.  She  could  see  him 
[86] 


CHAPTER     SIX 

standing  in  the  light  of  the  open  doorway,  and  ob- 
served the  look  of  dreaming  in  his  face.  "  You  always 
loved  music.  I  remember.  You  must  get  Yucca  to 
play  for  you." 

Her  fresh,  pretty  voice  recalled  him  to  her  side. 
The  sweetness  of  the  garden  was  cloying;  its  sugges- 
tion of  romance  unpleasant  to  him. 

They  sat  and  talked  until  late,  Trent's  mood  very 
tender  with  his  sense  of  protection  toward  Adele  as 
she  swung  gently  in  the  hammock  beside  his  chair. 
Lispenard  made  him  indignant,  much  as  he  loved  the 
quality  of  the  man.  His  friend  talked  wisely,  wittily, 
reading  a  paragraph  from  one  book,  a  verse  from 
another,  always  instructive,  never  pedantic,  enjoying 
the  spell  his  own  talk  cast  even  upon  himself. 

His  wife's  judgment  changed.  She  had  been 
wrong.  "  A  voice  crying  in  the  wilderness !  "  No, 
no,  no,  she  said  to  herself,  it  was  not  so.  She  resolved 
to  go  back  and  re-read  his  chapter  in  a  different  mood. 
Her  pride  in  him  returned  as  she  saw  that  his  intellec- 
tual poise  was  more  marked  than  that  of  the  other  two 
men.  No  one  yielded  to  the  spell  of  his  personality 
more  quickly  than  she. 

At  last  he  came  over  and  sat  down  in  the  hammock 
by  her  side,  tired  with  his  restless  walking  about  the 
room.  The  lamp  was  so  low  that  Miss  Armes  blew 
out  the  waning  flame  and  heaped  on  more  wood  in  the 
fireplace. 

[87] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

Trent  saw  Lispenard  take  his  wife's  hand  and 
hold  it  between  both  of  his.  He  was  surprised  and 
pleased  that  he  felt  no  pang  of  jealousy.  Surely 
Theodore  must  care  for  her  as  she  deserved.  Yet  he 
recalled  the  peculiar  happiness  with  which  he  had 
seemed  to  regard  Miss  Armes  when  they  had  been  on 
the  mountain  that  day,  and  was  puzzled.  If  he  loved 
her  how  could  he  be  happy,  being  the  honourable  man 
he  was ;  and  if  he  didn't  love  her  why  should  the  mere 
sight  of  her  make  him  so  happy  ? 

"  Of  course,  you  needn't  believe  it  if  you  don't  want 
to,  but  I've  seen  the  strangest  sight,"  said  Mrs.  Lis- 
penard, "  and  Theodore  just  laughs  at  me.  But 
it's  true,  Theodore,  you  horrid  thing." 

"  We're  going  back  to  the  primitive  experiences  of 
mankind,"  he  said,  his  voice  quivering  with  amuse- 
ment. "  My  wife  has  discovered  a  were-wolf  prowling 
about  the  house." 

"  I  never  said  a  were-wolf,"  she  retorted.  "  I  said 
a  common  grey  wolf." 

"  They're  mighty  common  this  season,"  said  Coz- 
zens,  ceasing  his  touch  on  the  mandolin  for  a  moment. 
"  Too  little  rain  makes  them  fierce.  They're  hang- 
ing around  pretty  close." 

"  And  Tiggy  tells  me  it's  a  friend  of  his,"  she 
ended. 

"  Poor  Tiggy,"  said  his  father.  "  He  is  cursed 
with  an  imagination." 

[88] 


CHAPTER     SIX 

"  And  it  has  one  paw  lopped  off,"  added  Miss 
Armes.  "  The  little  fellow  confided  that  much  in 
me." 

" 1  have  never  seen  it,"  Mrs.  Lispenard  admitted. 

"  I  shall  never  get  over  this,  Trent !  "  cried  her 
husband,  "  never.  I  suppose  it's  the  same  wolf  the 
soldier  turned  into  in  that  story  of  Petronius." 

Adele's  scornful  glance  convulsed  him.  She  turned 
her  back  on  them  both  and  addressed  herself  to  Miss 
Armes  and  Cozzens. 

"  Tiggy  never  tells  a  lie." 

"  This  will  be  the  death  of  me,"  Lispenard  cried. 

Cozzens  leant  forward  across  the  mandolin  on  his 
knee.  His  shrewd  eyes  were  speculative.  "  Where  do 
you  think  you  saw  it?  They  can  laugh,"  with  a  nod 
toward  the  two  men,  "  but  I've  seen  queer  things 
around  camp  in  my  time  that  have  set  me  thinking." 
Clever,  hard-headed,  as  he  was,  he  had  a  mystical  vein 
in  his  nature  that  made  him  attach  weight  to  the 
supernatural. 

"  I've  seen  it,"  said  Miss  Armes,  "  and  it  has  a  paw 
lopped  off  just  as  Tiggy  said.  It  ran  by  in  the  road 
one  night." 

"  No,"  said  Cozzens,  "  it  wouldn't  come  further 
than  the  outskirts  of  the  town." 

But  she  held  persistently  to  her  story.  Not  even 
when  it  was  time  to  go,  and  they  said  it  was  only  fair 
to  drop  the  joke  and  tell  them  the  real  truth, 
[89] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

would  she  admit  it  was  otherwise  than  she  had  first 
said. 

Adele  kissed  her  good-bye  at  the  door.  She  was  so 
pleased  to  have  her  story  corroborated  that  her  good 
spirits  were  restored.  It  dawned  upon  Trent  that  the 
two  women  were  really  fond  of  each  other  in  spite  of 
Adele's  jealousy. 

He  went  away  amused.  As  he  followed  the  other 
three  through  the  rose-arbour,  he  looked  back  over  his 
shoulder  and  saw  their  hostess  standing  in  the  door- 
way, holding  the  candle  with  which  she  had  lighted 
them  through  the  long  hall.  He  reached  the  gate, 
and  she  closed  the  door. 

He  and  Cozzens  said  good-night  to  the  Lispenards 
at  their  gate,  and  went  on  together  down  the  lonely 
street  toward  the  plaza. 

"  I  only  came  in  here  last  night,"  he  said,  "  and 
yet  I  feel  as  if  I  had  lived  here  a  long  time." 

Cozzens  was  delighted.  "  It's  because  it's  home  out 
here  to  every  stranger  that  comes  along." 

Late  though  it  was,  he  would  not  let  Trent  go  to  the 
station,  but  took  him  up  in  his  own  room,  which  was 
above  the  bank.  He  owned  the  building.  "  It's  the 
most  up-to-date  one  in  town,"  he  said. 

Trent  followed  him  up  the  stairs  through  two  con- 
necting offices  into  his  bedroom  beyond.  It  was  a 
large,  clean  room,  having  a  very  bright  wall-paper  and 
a  set  of  cheap  oak  furniture.  "  I  had  that  put  in  for 
[90] 


CHAPTER     SIX 

looks,"  said  Cozzens,  pointing  to  a  sham  fireplace." 
I  can't  stand  the  muss  and  dirt  a  fire  makes." 

It  seemed  to  his  guest  that  he  had  never  been  in 
such  a  bare  and  orderly  place.  A  towel  was  spread  on 
the  bureau,  and  on  this  were  a  lamp,  a  whisk-broom, 
and  a  brush  and  comb.  A  photograph  of  Lispenard's 
boys  stood  against  the  mirror,  and  was  the  only 
picture  in  the  room.  On  the  mantle  were  a  small  china 
barrel  which  held  cigars,  an  ash-receiver,  and  two 
paper-backed  novels  laid  exactly,  one  on  the  other. 

Cozzens  lighted  the  lamp  and  put  some  water  in  a 
tin  cup,  which  he  placed  by  means  of  a  patented  ar- 
rangement over  the  chimney.  While  the  water  was 
heating  he  brought  out  whiskey  and  glasses  from  his 
closet  and  placed  the  barrel  of  cigars  on  the  table. 
"  We'll  have  a  nippy,"  he  said  cheerfully. 

Trent  read  the  titles  of  the  books  on  the  mantel,  and 
saw  they  were  not  literature  according  to  his  under- 
standing of  it.  He  found  such  companionship  in  his 
books  that  there  was  always  something  pathetic  to  him 
in  a  man  who  did  not  know  the  fine  flavour  that  the 
best  gives.  He  did  not  know  when  he  had  been  so 
drawn  toward  a  man  as  he  was  toward  Cozzens.  Lis- 
penard  had  already  told  him  of  this  man,  of  his  pic- 
turesque career,  his  splendid  service  as  superintendent 
of  Indian  affairs  in  Arizona.  It  was  believed  that  he 
knew  the  country  and  its  various  trails  as  no  other 
man  did;  he  spoke  Spanish  and  the  Mexican  patois 
[91] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

like  a  native ;  he  had  amassed  an  immense  fortune : 
and  those  powerful  shoulders  had  once  carried  for 
over  fifty  miles  a  sick  woman  abandoned  on  a  trail  to 
die  of  thirst — a  feat  of  almost  superhuman  strength 
in  that  alkali  country. 

Trent  felt  his  heart  warm  toward  him  as  he  talked 
enthusiastically  of  the  wonderful  climate  with  its 
health-giving  property,  his  faith  in  the  open-hearted 
energetic  people,  and  their  great  resources  in  the  gold 
and  silver  mines.  He  saw  that  it  was  the  boundless 
freedom  of  the  West  which  had  let  him  develop.  He 
would  always  have  been  a  power,  but  in  the  East  he 
might  have  been  only  a  controller  of  the  money  mar- 
ket, or  a  political  boss.  "  He  has  no  culture,  but  he 
has  imagination.  It  was  he  who  named  Sahuaro," 
Lispenard  had  told  Trent  on  the  way  home  from 
Miss  Armes's  as  Cozzens  walked  ahead  with  Adele. 
"  I  pointed  but  to-day  the  cactus  of  that  name — a 
fluted  Greek  column  broken  at  the  top,  you  remem- 
ber? " 

Cozzens  smoked  incessantly.  He  saw  that  his  guest 
noted  his  habit  of  keeping  his  left  hand  in  his  pocket. 

"  You  wonder  what  I  keep  jingling  that  money 
for,"  he  said.  "  Well,  the  truth  of  the  matter  is,  that 
when  I  was  young  I  ran  against  hard  lines,  and  money 
came  hard.  Well,  I've  got  a  lot  now  on  paper  and 
land  and  a  hundred  thousand  cattle,  too,  and  all  that, 
but  none  of  it  gives  me  half  the  satisfaction  and  sense 
[92] 


CHAPTER    SIX 

of  security  that  them  few  birds  in  my  pocket  do. 
Roughing  it  on  the  desert  as  I  do  has  taught  me  there 
ain't  anything  so  valuable  as  what  you  got  on  you. 
A  whole  river  somewhere  else  ain't  going  to  satisfy  you 
like  one  bottle  of  warmish  water  if  you're  off  on  an 
alkali  plain,  and  I  hold  the  same  thing's  true  about 
money.  I  always  keep  a  good  handful  of  gold  pieces 
in  my  pocket.  And  I  like  to  feel  them  there.  This 
having  so  much  on  paper  goes  against  a  fellow  who's 
washed  up  the  real  stuff  himself." 

He  laughed,  for  with  all  his  naivete  he  knew  that  no 
one  made  shrewder  investments  than  he  did  himself. 

It  was  long  past  one  o'clock  when  they  parted. 
Trent  had  not  been  given  a  key  to  the  hotel.  It  was 
not  Haydon's  custom  to  give  one,  and  in  this  he  was  a 
tyrant,  for  what  curious  reason  no  one  knew.  As 
Trent  waited  for  him  to  open  the  door  that  night  he 
had  a  delicious  sense  of  getting  in  too  late.  It  was  so 
long  since  he  had  been  responsible  to  anyone  for  his 
comings  and  goings  that  he  enjoyed  this  new  sensa- 
tion. He  even  found  himself  apologetic  when  the  sta- 
tion-master, barefooted,  and  in  his  shirt  and  trousers, 
let  him  in. 

Hay  don  was  magnanimous.  It's  all  right, 
Judge."  He  had  found  out  his  guest's  profession,  and 
did  it  honour.  "  I  want  any  gentleman  to  feel  that 
he's  at  home  in  this  house.  I'm  afraid  I  kept  you 
waiting.  I  was  so  dead  asleep." 
[93] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

Trent  found  his  room  as  he  had  left  it  in  the  morn- 
ing, and  he  was  obliged  to  make  up  the  bed  himself 
before  he  could  retire.  No  morbid  thoughts  kept  him 
awake  this  night.  He  went  to  sleep  like  a  child,  and 
did  not  waken  until  late  into  the  morning. 


[94] 


CHAPTER  VII 

A  FORTNIGHT  passed  by,  and  Jarvis  Trent 
still  lingered.  The  delight  of  the  climate  was 
upon  him.  The  air  of  the  semi-tropical 
desert  gave  him  a  fresh  lease  of  life.  He  got  a  horse 
and  went  for  long  rides.  He  had  been  too  poor  when 
a  younger  man  to  have  a  saddle-horse,  and  when  he 
could  have  afforded  it  the  thought  of  such  a  luxury, 
through  long  denial,  never  entered  his  mind.  But 
here  everyone  rode.  He  had  expected  to  spend  his  va- 
cation in  an  extended  trip  through  the  West ;  he  found 
himself  tempted  to  spend  it  all  in  Sahuaro.  He  was 
gone  several  days  with  Cozzens  on  a  trip  to  the  mines. 
Jim  was  allowed  to  go  with  them,  and  the  three  had 
their  own  tent  in  the  mining  camp,  which  had  been 
named  Marble  City.  Trent  had  never  seen  a  place  so 
forlorn  before,  nor  had  he  known  until  then  that  a 
forlorn  place  could  be  so  cheerful.  Coming  home  the 
mountain  trail  one  hot  noon  they  met  the  opposite  of 
Cozzens,  the  type  of  the  unsuccessful  prospector,  a 
bowed,  worn  figure,  grey  with  alkali  dust,  muttering  to 
himself,  his  glazed  eyes  still  bright  with  hope  of  find- 
ing fabled  gold.  He  remained  a  haunting  memory  to 
Trent  for  years.  Trent  invested  in  some  mining  prop- 
erty, and  made  this  an  additional  excuse  for  lingering 
in  Sahuaro.  He  began  to  see  how  it  was  that  a  man 
[95] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

might  let  time  glide  by  in  such  a  place,  excusing  his 
inertia  by  the  thought  that  he  intended  sometime  to 
return  to  the  East,  which  must  always  be  home  in  the 
best  sense  to  the  person  born  there.  He  sought  the 
acquaintance  of  the  mission  priest,  urged  by  his  de- 
sire to  know  better  the  desert  and  its  people.  The  old 
man  kept  much  to  himself,  having  learned  reserve  from 
the  Indians  among  whom  he  had  lived  so  long.  His 
physical  resemblance  to  them  was  great.  His  grey  hair 
hung  straight  to  his  shoulders  beneath  his  black  som- 
brero, and  his  skin  was  brown  as  his  brown  rosary.  The 
silver  crucifix  he  wore  was  an  ancient  one,  and  he  held  as 
sacred  talismans  parchment  scripts  by  the  holy  fathers 
which  had  been  found  hidden  in  Santa  Ines.  He  was 
indifferent  to  the  crumbling  beauty  of  the  old  mission, 
and  had  a  new  narrow  chamber  of  a  church  where  he 
and  his  Indian  acolytes  held  services.  And  Trent 
could  never  make  out  as  he  chatted  with  him  whether 
the  old  priest  were  more  Christian  or  Pagan,  so  imbued 
was  he  with  the  superstitions  of  his  Indian  people. 
To  Lispenard  he  seemed  both  ignorant  and  dogmatic. 
He  had  lived  too  long  near  him  to  get  the  same  pic- 
turesque view  that  his  friend  did.  Trent's  pleasure 
had  become  simple.  The  arrival  of  the  Overland 
train  started  his  morning  properly;  its  coming  at 
night  was  the  event  to  be  looked  forward  to  all  day. 
He  and  the  invalid  were  the  only  guests  of  the  hotel 
at  present,  and  they  made  each  other's  acquaintance 
[96] 


CHAPTER    SEVEN 

as  they  sat  out  on  the  balcony  with  its  border  of 
flower-boxes.  He  was  surprised  to  learn  that  the 
young  fellow  was  homesick  until  he  was  shown  the 
picture  of  a  girl  inside  the  cover  of  his  watch. 
But  he  saw  the  boy's  spirits  brighten  as  he  grew 
stronger,  and  finally  he  was  well  enough  to  take  a 
position  on  a  cattle-ranch.  Trent  missed  him.  He 
had  not  seen  any  evidence  of  coloured  blood  in  him, 
and  he  learned  afterward  that  it  was  Haydon's  weak- 
ness to  suspect  most  dark-skinned  people  who  were 
not  out-and-out  Mexicans  and  Spaniards  of  this 
hereditary  taint.  The  station-master  confided  to  him 
that  Mr.  Lispenard  paid  for  the  room  and  the  lux- 
uries which  the  invalid  had  enjoyed.  Trent  was 
touched  to  hear  that  his  friend  gave  so  much  out  of  a 
salary  he  knew  must  be  meagre,  and  spoke  to  him  of 
his  own  wish  to  contribute  something.  Lispenard  was 
embarrassed.  "  It  is  the  least  I  can  do.  It's  con- 
science-money. I  am  not  the  proper  kind  of  parish 
priest.  Don't  you  remember,  I  told  you  so?  If  I 
were  I  would  get  hold  of  those  forlorn  strangers  my- 
self. But  I'm  not  sympathetic  with  sick  people. 
They  antagonise  me,  and  I  antagonise  them.  Hay  don 
is  a  born  nurse,  and  I  put  those  matters  in  his  hands. 
It's  the  least  I  can  do." 

Evening  after  evening  he  and  the  Lispenards  and 
Cozzens  and  Miss  Armes  spent  together  with  the  same 
eager  pleasure  in  their  mutual  society  as  if  they  were 
[97] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

children.  Through  them  he  made  the  acquaint- 
ance of  an  old  Spanish  family,  and  gained  an  in- 
sight into  customs  and  traditions  new  to  him.  Not 
for  many  years  had  he  taken  such  delight  in  the 
company  of  his  fellows.  He  encountered  opinions,  but 
not  prejudices;  the  atmosphere  was  too  big  for  per- 
sonalities, and  so  he  found  that  while  he  liked  Miss 
Armes  no  better  than  at  first,  they  got  along  together 
fairly  well.  He  learned  to  appreciate  the  quality  of 
her  mind,  if  he  never  felt  any  warmth  for  her.  That 
moment  of  fascination,  of  intoxicating  sweetness,  when 
he  stood  near  her  in  the  fragrant  enchantment  of  her 
garden  had  never  returned.  Her  charm  that  night 
was  like  a  vanished  perfume;  he  might  recognise  it 
again,  but  he  did  not  remember  it.  Like  ship- 
wrecked people,  none  who  desired  the  society  of  his 
fellows  could  afford  the  indulgence  of  dislike.  Their 
common  humanity  drew  them  together  in  that  vast 
and  lonely  desert.  He  was  convinced  that  she  was  at- 
tached to  Lispenard,  but  his  mind  did  not  dwell  on  the 
suspicion.  It  seemed  ungenerous  on  his  part  to  do 
so,  and  he  thought,  too,  that  her  frequent  visits  to  the 
Lispenards'  home,  were  also  due  to  her  desire  to  get 
away  from  her  lonely  house,  filled  with  memories  of 
her  father.  And  he  was  invariably  touched  and  soft- 
ened when  he  noticed  the  old  cape  about  her.  He  had 
known  women  who  wore  the  army  insignia  for  the  sake 
of  their  lovers,  or  because  they  were  becoming,  but 
[98] 


CHAPTER    SEVEN 

she  wore  the  Major's  cape  over  her  slender  shoulders 
as  if  in  mourning  for  him.  Trent  did  not  permit 
himself  to  think  whether  Lispenard  cared  for  the  girl 
in  turn  or  not ;  he  knew  his  friend  too  well  to  take  him 
seriously  as  regarded  women. 

Small  as  the  place  was  there  was  no  spirit  of  gossip 
in  it.  These  people  were  the  reverse  of  the  New 
England  country  people  he  had  known.  Far  out  of 
the  world  as  they  were,  they  yet  seemed  to  be  in  touch 
with  it.  They  were  full  of  inspiration;  they  were 
filled  with  the  spirit  of  the  opening  West.  He  saw 
that  passionate  hatreds  and  loves  existed  and  often  led 
to  the  taking  of  life,  but  those  pettier  emotions,  the 
vague  jealousies,  pique,  disloyalty,  that  miasma  of  the 
spirit,  vanished  in  such  perpetual  sunshine,  for  the 
soul  as  well  as  the  body  seemed  to  be  steeped  in  it.  He 
was  still  convinced  that  he  loved  Adele  as  dearly  as 
ever,  but  the  first  fever  of  meeting  her  subsided,  and  he 
felt  much  as  he  did  when  they  were  children,  and  she 
had  chosen  Lispenard  to  be  her  little  lover.  That 
childish  instinct  had  been  the  true  one;  her  later  en- 
gagement to  him  had  been  the  mistake,  for  he  saw  that 
she  worshipped  Lispenard.  But  as  far  as  he  was  con- 
cerned she  would  always  be  the  first  and  only  woman 
in  the  world. 

The  only  depressing  experience  he  had  was  his  at- 
tendance at  church.  He  and  Cozzens  arrived  home 
Saturday  night  from  the  mines  and  went  to  church  to- 
[99] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

gether.  In  front  of  them  sat  Mrs.  Lispenard  and  the 
two  boys.  The  congregation  was  meagre,  a  mere 
handful  of  people.  Miss  Armes  was  there,  and  sat 
alone.  Her  old  Mexican  housekeeper  attended  the 
Roman  Catholic  mission.  The  music  was  feeble,  and 
Lispenard  preached  above  the  heads  of  most  of  his 
congregation.  It  was  a  disheartening  service,  and  one 
that  left  Trent,  who  was  no  church-member,  pro- 
foundly depressed  for  his  friend's  sake.  He  felt  that 
the  man's  brilliancy  was  lost.  Above  the  altar  was  the 
round  window  with  its  grey  lamb.  The  lamb  had  an 
absurdly  cynical  expression,  and  he  did  not  wonder  at 
Lispenard's  aversion  to  it  and  his  temptation  to  throw 
a  stone  through  it. 

There  was  no  evening  service,  and  Lispenard 
dragged  his  two  friends  off  for  a  walk,  insisting  that 
they  owed  him  that  much  after  their  absence.  He  had 
worked  hard  on  the  revision  of  his  book  while  they 
were  at  the  mines,  and  had  it  ready  to  send  on  its 
rounds  to  the  publishers.  "  The  only  thing  which 
troubles  me,"  he  said,  "  is  the  money  for  express  I 
may  have  to  pay  out." 

When  he  went  home  a  little  before  ten,  leaving  Coz- 
zens  and  Trent  to  their  cigars  on  the  balcony  of  the 
depot,  his  early  departure  was  due  to  his  desire  to 
wrap  up  his  manuscript  and  count  the  pages  once 
more  to  see  that  they  were  in  order.  He  opened  the 
gate  and  walked  hastily  up  to  the  house,  wondering 
[100] 


CHAPTER    SEVEN 

if  Adele  had  paper  and  twine  for  him.  He  had  an 
appreciative  thought  of  how  absolutely  he  relied  on 
her  housewifely  spirit  to  have  things  always  ready  for 
his  convenience. 

He  found  her  alone  at  his  desk.  The  boys  had 
gone  to  bed. 

"  Are  you  writing  letters,  my  dear  ? "  he  en- 
quired, searching  for  his  pipe  on  the  mantel.  It 
seemed  long  since  he  had  smoked.  Cozzens's  cigars 
were  so  heavy  he  never  touched  one  of  them. 

"  To  whom  would  I  write?  "  she  answered.  "  What 
friends  have  I  left  ?  I  have  lived  so  long  out  here  that 
they  have  forgotten  me." 

His  mood  of  happiness  and  anticipation  which  had 
brought  him  home  so  joyfully,  vanished.  He  put 
back  his  pipe  on  the  mantel  and  sat  down  with  a  sud- 
den weariness.  "  What  would  you  have  me  to  do? 
I  have  told  you  if  I  received  a  call  to  another  parish 
I  would  go." 

"  Why  do  you  think  to  deceive  me,  Theodore  ?  "  she 
asked.  "  You  do  not  anger  me.  I  cannot  quarrel 
with  you,  but  you  know  and  I  know  that  if  you  re- 
ceived such  a  call  you  would  destroy  the  letter  rather 
than  show  it  to  me,  for  fear  of  my  insistence  that  you 
should  accept  the  opening." 

"  What  has  changed  you  so,  Adele  ?  "  he  asked. 
"  Is  it  Trent's  coming?  Has  he  made  you  discon- 
tented? " 

[101] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

"  Yes,"  she  said.  "  You  both  started  out  even  in 
the  world.  If  anything,  people  thought  you  the 
more  gifted.  I  see  him  now,  well-off,  his  reputation 
established,  well-dressed,  while  you  are  so  shabby 
that  I  notice  it  and  am  hurt  when  I  see  you  together. 
I  have  been  sitting  here  while  you  were  gone  and  try- 
ing to  make  up  our  accounts.  We  are  poorer  than 
ever." 

His  relief  was  so  great  that  he  felt  a  rebound  of 
spirits.  This  adding  up  of  accounts  invariably  in- 
duced a  tragic  mood  in  Adele.  "  My  dear,"  he  said, 
now  genially,  "  it  isn't  wisdom  in  our  financial  straits 
ever  to  figure  up.  Ignorance  is  bliss  in  our  case.  The 
burning  question  of  the  moment  is,  not  next  Sunday's 
chicken,  but  whether  we  have  the  money  in  the  house 
to  pay  the  express  on  my  book  to-morrow  morning. 
I  would  send  it  C.  O.  D.,  if  I  were  not  afraid  that 
might  prejudice  the  publishers.  What  do  you 
think?"  He  could  not  win  a  smile  from  her.  "At 
least  we  have  enough  to  eat  and  drink  and  clothes  and 
good  health." 

"  So  have  the  Indians,"  she  answered  stormily. 
"  Are  we  no  better  than  they  ?  You  may  despise  lux- 
ury. But  I  want  money  for  my  children.  I  am 
mortified  that  so  often  they  have  been  obliged  to  wear 
things  sent  to  us  in  missionary  boxes.  It  does  not  mat- 
ter that  my  life  has  been  ruined." 

He  was  troubled  at  last.  "  Do  you  mean  that  I 
[102] 


CHAPTER    SEVEN 

have  ruined  your  life,  Adele  ?  "  Then,  with  that  sensi- 
tive frown  so  characteristic  of  both  him  and  Tiggy 
when  troubled,  he  added  gently,  "  I  thought  we  had 
been  so  happy  here." 

"  Ah,  Theodore,"  she  said  with  increasing  bitter- 
ness, "  your  egotism  never  permits  you  to  see  your 
children's  necessity  nor  to  judge  how  I  may  feel.  I 
have  hated  it  so  here  that  I  have  sometimes  felt  I 
could  leave  you  gladly  if  that  would  be  leaving  the 
desert  behind."  Her  words  seemed  to  clear  her  own 
mind.  Why  should  she  not  leave?  Why  not?  How 
aloof  they  were !  What  had  she  in  common  with  this 
threadbare  philosopher,  troubled  now  and  made  un- 
certain by  her  passionate  appeal  ?  She  thought  of  Jar- 
vis  Trent,  to  whom  she  had  once  been  engaged.  He 
stood  for  what  she  had  lost,  worldly  position,  comfort, 
the  means  to  do  for  her  children.  Her  face  burned. 

As  yet  Lispenard  had  not  answered.  His  blue 
eyes  were  fixed  on  her  in  a  puzzled  gaze. 

"  Oh,  Theodore,"  she  cried,  "  for  God's  sake,  stop 
thinking  and  feel  something !  Can  nothing  hurt  you, 
can  nothing  touch  you?  "  She  laughed  at  the  ab- 
surdity of  such  an  appeal  to  him,  and  her  mingled 
emotions  brought  her  to  tears. 

He  rose  and  came  around  the  table  to  her.  "  Adele, 
if  you  will  have  patience  my  book  will  bring  in  money 

yet." 

"  Oh,  no  it  won't !  "  she  cried.     "  What  money  have 
[103] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

you  ever  made  out  of  anything  you  have  written?  In 
your  inmost  heart  you  despise  money.  Cozzens  could 
have  made  you  a  rich  man  if  you  had  allowed  him  to 
invest  our  poor  little  savings.  But,  no;  you  must  put 
them  all  in  books.  You  do  not  care  what  we  lack.  I 
tell  you,  Theodore,  I  have  lost  you.  The  desert  has 
taken  you  from  me.  You  do  not  love  your  boys.  You 
are  sweet  and  pleasant  until  I  could  wish  you  were 
hateful,  if  that  would  only  show  you  cared.  You  can- 
not deceive  me.  And  I  have  ceased  to  mean  much  to 
you.  Why,  Jarvis  Trent  is  more  conscious  of  me  than 
you ;  he —  '  She  stopped,  shamed  by  her  own  words. 

"  Adele,"  he  said,  striving  to  take  her  hand,  "  I 
have  never  loved  any  woman  but  you." 

"  That  was  your  past  self,"  she  said.  "  You  have 
ceased  to  regard  me  now.  And  I  am  sick  of  living  on 
the  past  and  consoling  myself  with  memories  of  the 
time  when  you  did.  Oh,  do  not,  if  you  h#ve  any 
respect  for  us  both,  talk  of  love  again  to  me!  You 
care  more  to-day  for  Cozzens,  for  Yucca  Armes,  than 
for  me  and  the  boys.  And  I  have  ceased  to  care  for 
you.  You  love  truth,  Theodore ;  then  have  it.  Your 
heart  is  dying  within  you.  What  kind  of  a  clergy- 
man are  you?  It  is  all  pretence.  You  do  not  love 
your  congregation  nor  your  church.  They  weary  and 
bore  you  as  I  do.  And  now  that  you  have  taught  me 
the  lesson  of  giving  way  to  one's  own  selfish  desire, 
I  may  as  well  tell  you  that  your  philosophy  has  made 
[104] 


CHAPTER    SEVEN 

me  hate  religion,  and  your  passion  for  poverty  has 
made  me  long  for  luxury.  I  am  going  to  leave  you." 
She  was  trembling,  but  no  longer  tearful. 

Her  words  did  not  alarm  him;  he  knew  her  bitter 
mood  would  pass,  but  he  thought  of  the  limitless 
desert,  and  had  a  picture  of  his  poor  passionate  wife 
trudging  away  on  foot,  anywhere,  to  be  relieved  of 
his  presence.  "  I  wish  I  had  money  to  send  you  away 
for  a  change." 

His  words  softened  her,  for  she  knew  they  were  sin- 
cere. No  one  could  be  kinder  than  Theodore  when  his 
sympathies  were  aroused.  She  hid  her  face  in  her 
hands,  and  the  tears  trickled  through  her  fingers  and 
fell  on  the  sheet  of  paper,  blurring  her  careful  figur- 
ing. She  spoke  brokenly.  "  I  used  to  tell  myself 
when  Jim  was  a  little  baby  that  I  would  never  love 
him  best.  He  was  given  to  me  to  take  care  of,  but  you 
chose  me  out  of  all  the  world.  I  wanted  to  be  faith- 
ful to  our  earliest  love.  I  was  romantic.  But  I  have 
changed.  Our  children  have  separated  us." 

"  I  don't  think  I  quite  understand  you,  my  dear," 
he  said,  frowning  in  his  distress. 

"  Had  there  been  just  you  and  me  I  should  have  re- 
mained content  even  here,  for  you  were  my  world," 
she  said  piteously ;  "  but  you  threw  all  the  respon- 
sibility of  the  children  on  me  until  I  have  become  ab- 
sorbed in  them  to  the  exclusion  of  you."  She  re- 
peated the  words,  "  to  the  exclusion  of  you." 
[105] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

"  I  think  you  are  making  a  mistake,"  he  answered. 
"  I  am  not  brutal,  and  yet  you  will  think  me  so  when  I 
say  that  you  are  self-indulgent.  You  have  let  your 
maternal  love  become  a  kind  of  intemperance  with  you 
so  that  you  see  everything  from  that  standpoint." 

"  You  do  not  care  for  them,"  she  flamed  out  at 
him,  "  you  do  not  care  for  them." 

"  I  do  care  for  them,"  he  said,  with  more  sternness 
than  he  had  ever  used  toward  her.  "  But  you  are 
right  when  you  say  I  am  not  wrapped  up  in  them. 
Why  should  I  be?  I  love  them  and  I  appreciate  them 
as  individuals,  but  I  should  be  a  hypocrite  if  I  said 
that  at  present  my  own  life  did  not  interest  me  more. 
I  may  in  time  sink  my  own  ambition  in  my  hopes  for 
them.  But  that  will  be  when  they  are  older." 

"  And  what  of  them  in  the  meantime  ?  "  she  asked. 
"  While  you  are  doing  what  pleases  yourself  who  will 
educate  them  as  they  should  be?  Your  sons  are  the 
children  of  gentle  people,  but  what  associates  have 
they  here?  I  am  still  able  to  keep  Tiggy  with  me, 
but  Jim  spends  his  spare  moments  with  that  crowd 
which  hangs  around  Haydon." 

"  He  is  learning  life  there,"  he  answered,  "  just  as 
Trent  and  I  learned  it  at  the  corner-grocery  when  we 
were  his  age." 

"  You  call  yourself  ambitious,  Theodore,"  she  said, 
as  if  she  had  not  heard  his  last  remark.  She  looked 
incredulously  at  him,  his  shabby  coat,  his  delicate, 
[106] 


CHAPTER    SEVEN 

troubled  face.  Her  mood  of  the  other  day  returned 
to  her.  "  The  voice  of  one  crying  in  the  wilderness !  " 
The  words  rang  in  her  ears  as  though  they  were 
spoken  aloud.  And  she  had  followed  that  voice  in  her 
girlhood,  that  fond  and  foolish  girlhood.  She  looked 
at  her  husband  with  aversion.  She  longed  to  crush 
him  by  repeating  that  terrible  phrase.  Ah,  could  he 
but  realise  how  she  felt  and  see  himself  as  he  was ! 

He  put  his  hand  on  her  bowed  shoulder,  and  she 
thrust  his  arm  away  with  a  movement  so  violent  that 
it  was  like  a  blow.  He  sat  down  and  covered  his  eyes 
with  his  hand.  The  scene  was  humiliating  to 
him. 

She  recalled  his  words  of  only  a  short  while  ago: 
"  I  thought  we  had  been  so  happy  here." 

"  Theodore,"  she  said,  "  Theodore." 

He  took  his  hands  from  his  eyes  and  tried  to  smile 
at  her,  grateful  for  any  overture  that  would  lead  to 
peace.  She  put  her  arms  out  to  him  across  the  corner 
of  the  table,  and  he  bent  forward  to  kiss  her.  His 
lips  were  cold  with  emotion.  She  leant  forward  until 
her  head  rested  on  his  breast  as  he  sat  next  to  her,  and 
he  put  his  arm  about  her.  A  sense  of  happiness  and 
comfort  deeper  than  she  had  known  for  years  swept 
over  her.  Once  more  his  mood  was  that  of  protection. 
She  felt  restored  to  wifehood.  She  could  feel  his  heart 
throbbing  beneath  her  cheek,  the  poor  heart  which  at 
one  time  had  threatened  to  invalid  him. 
[107] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

Lispenard,  waiting  for  his  wife's  sobs  to  die  down, 
held  her  closely.  The  clasp  of  his  arm  was  warm  about 
her,  but  above  her  head  his  blue  eyes  gazed  out  of  the 
window  past  the  shaded  lamp  with  a  far-away  expres- 
sion. Between  the  half-drawn  curtains  he  could  see 
the  soft  yellow  stars  of  the  moonless  night,  and  he 
thought  of  their  courtship.  Then  love-making  had 
been  their  supreme  duty,  the  plan  on  which  the  world 
was  made.  Adele  had  clung  to  their  early  romance; 
she  had  lived  in  her  affections  and  developed  no  intel- 
lectual interests.  He  was  filled  with  compassion  for 
her.  She  reproached  him  that  he  had  ceased  to  care. 
She  did  not  realise  that  what  she  longed  for  was  the 
glamour  of  youth.  She  would  be  eternally  won.  She 
could  not  learn  that  every  soul  was  happy  only  as  it 
stood  alone,  when  it  was  able  to  resign  all  affections 
which  were  tormenting  because  they  possessed  the  ele- 
ment of  personality.  He  wished  that  she  might  grasp 
the  present  for  its  own  sake,  and  not  always  view  it  by 
its  contrast  with  the  past. 

She  withdrew  herself  gently  from  his  arms.  "  I  do 
not  feel  as  if  we  could  sleep,  either  of  us,"  she  said. 
"  Would  you  like  to  take  a  little  walk?  "  For  the  sake 
of  his  own  dignity  and  hers,  she  would  not  speak  of 
this  scene  between  them  again.  She  saw  that  it  was 
useless  to  attempt  to  make  him  understand  how  she 
felt  about  the  boys.  She  got  him  his  hat  and  cane, 
drew  her  lace  scarf  about  her  head  and  shoulders,  and 
[108] 


CHAPTER    SEVEN 

waited  while  he  turned  down  the  lamp.     She  saw  him 
hesitate. 

"  What  is  it,  dear?  "  she  asked  him. 

"  I  was  going  to  get  my  book  ready  to  go  by  the 
early  express,"  he  said. 

The  motherliness  of  her  nature  went  out  to  comfort 
him.  "  How  would  it  be  if  we  did  that  first  and  took 
our  walk  later?  "  she  proposed. 

"  Thank  you,"  he  said  gratefully. 

She  went  out  into  the  kitchen  and  brought  back 
some  stout  twine  and  paper.  She  had  no  faith  in  his 
writings,  but  she  forced  a  smile  to  her  lips.  A  vague 
plan  she  had  been  thinking  over  for  the  past  week  took 
definite  shape  in  her  mind  as  she  watched  him.  Finally 
he  sat  down  at  the  desk  and  directed  the  package. 

"  I  don't  know  when  I  have  been  apprehensive  be- 
fore, but  suppose  it  should  be  lost,"  he  remarked  as 
he  rose. 

They  went  out  together  into  the  quiet  street  of  the 
sleeping  town.  His  nature  was  gentle.  He  was  glad 
for  the  restored  peace  and  that  she  took  his  arm. 

"  We  have  the  quietness  of  old  friends,"  he  said, 
turning  to  her  with  a  smile. 

She  could  not  speak.  And  he  had  once  been  her 
young  and  ardent  lover  1 

"  When  you  look  and  smile  at  me  like  that,  Adele," 
he  said,  "  I  know  you  forgive  me  much,  even  my  pov- 
erty." 

[109] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

Pride  kept  the  smile  on  her  lips.  He  should  never 
know  how  he  wounded  her.  Yet  there  burned  in  her 
the  one  question  she  most  longed  to  ask,  longed  so  to 
utter  that  he  read  something  of  her  desire  in  her  eyes. 

"  What  is  it,  Adele?  Are  you  keeping  something 
from  me?  Do  you  want  to  tell  it  to  me?  " 

Between  his  face  and  hers  she  seemed  to  see  another. 
Had  it  been  less  beautiful  she  could  have  spoken.  Its 
perfection  was  fatal.  She  would  not  humiliate  herself 
by  comparison  with  it.  Her  soul  took  refuge  in  the 
dignity  of  her  motherhood.  For  her  children's  sake, 
she  would  not  ask  their  father  the  question  which  trem- 
bled on  her  lips. 

"  No,"  she  answered,  "  it  was  nothing." 

Lispenard,  restored  to  harmony,  spoke  of  the 
thoughts  which  come  to  one  under  the  open  sky  at 
night.  She  listened  to  him  with  a  certain  dutifulness, 
but  she  felt  that  her  spirit  had  gone  beyond  his  in  its 
suffering,  and  that  he  lacked  the  sympathy  to  under- 
stand her. 

The  night  was  sweet  about  them.  The  stars  shone 
resplendently  in  the  dark  heavens,  not  with  the  scin- 
tillating brightness  of  the  north,  but  with  a  lambent, 
yellow  glow. 

"  Have  you  ever  thought  that  the  sky  on  Sunday 
night  always  has  a  solemn  look  to  one  from  long  asso- 
ciation of  church-going  on  that  evening  ?  "  he  said. 
"  It  is  a  fancy  I  had  as  a  child.  I  used  to  think  the 
[110] 


CHAPTER    SEVEN 

stars  never  looked  very  merry  Sunday  evenings.  They 
didn't  twinkle  enough  to  suit  me  then.  I  ought  to  love 
Sunday,  but  I  don't." 

They  stood  looking  up  some  moments,  and  at  last 
she  lowered  her  gaze  to  his  face.  What  vision  did  he 
see  that  she  could  not?  Why  did  he  have  so  often 
that  impersonal,  secret  look  which  seemed  to  remove 
his  spirit  far  from  hers? 

She  looked  over  the  wide  desert ;  she  saw  the  ragged 
black  mountains,  cutting  like  great  shadows  into  the 
starry  sky ;  the  stillness  was  appalling.  She  felt  as  if 
her  heart  were  breaking. 

"  Theodore,"  she  said,  putting  her  hands  on  his 
shoulders,  "  look  at  me  just  once  as  you  used  to.  Look 
at  me  kindly,  Theodore,  in  the  old  way.  Do  not  make 
me  feel  I  mean  nothing  to  you." 


[Ill] 


CHAPTER   VIII 

THERE  were  white  clouds  in  the  blue  sky,  and 
they  were  dazzling  as  snow  on  sunlit  peaks. 
Jarvis  Trent  felt  that  he  could  have  spent 
hours  watching  that  brilliant  panorama  of  white  and 
blue. 

"  I  shall  take  a  vacation  out  here  every  year,"  he 
said  enthusiastically,  breaking  the  long  silence  that 
had  fallen  between  him  and  Mrs.  Lispenard. 

The  two  were  alone  on  her  veranda,  waiting  for 
Lispenard  to  return.  A  parishioner,  an  old  person 
who  had  been  ill  a  long  time,  had  sent  for  him  early  in 
the  afternoon,  and  he  had  not  yet  come  back. 

She  looked  up  from  her  sewing.  "  So  you  too  find 
it  beautiful,  Jarvey?  " 

He  had  forgotten  that  she  disliked  the  country,  and 
that  he  had  sympathised  with  her  when  he  first  came. 

"  You  need  not  look  at  me  so  anxiously  to  see  if  you 
have  hurt  my  feelings,"  she  continued,  with  some 
amusement.  "  I  knew  you  would  grow  to  love  it  here. 
I  am  not  surprised.  But  when  I  die,  it  shall  be  like 
Falstaff,  '  babbling  o'  green  fields  ' !  " 

"  Adele !  "  he  exclaimed.  It  was  he  who  was  hurt 
by  her  cold  tone. 


CHAPTER  EIGHT 

"  I  am  not  blaming  you,"  she  retorted,  with  a  flash 
of  anger.  "  I  am  glad  you  find  it  beautiful.  But  why 
should  it  be  denied  to  me  to  find  it  beautiful,  when  my 
life  is  laid  out  here?  I  have  prayed  often  and  often 
that  I  might  learn  to  love  it.  It  is  all  hideous  to  me. 
There  is  nothing  sweet.  I  am  glad  that  neither  of  my 
boys  was  a  girl.  This  would  have  been  no  place  to 
bring  up  a  little  daughter." 

She  bent  her  head  over  her  sewing  again  and  worked 
rapidly  on  a  shirtwaist  she  was  making  for  Tiggy. 
The  breeze  stirred  the  brown  curls  at  the  nape  of  her 
pretty  neck. 

"  Don't  you  see  how  hideous  it  all  is  ?  "  she  con- 
tinued, pinning  the  shoulder-seam  to  her  dress  at  the 
knee,  that  she  might  get  a  firmer  hold  of  the  cloth, 
and  starting  a  buttonhole.  "  There  is  no  peace  in  this 
desert,  still  as  it  is.  Everything  is  fighting  for  its 
life.  Even  the  flowers  are  armed.  I  have  never  ad- 
mired their  strange  colouring.  They  have  no  fra- 
grance. Theodore  talks  about  their  character.  It 
is  ridiculous  to  talk  of  a  flower  having  character.  I 
hate  their  morbid  tints.  What  do  I  care  about  their 
admirable  fitness  to  their  environment?  He  might  as 
well  try  to  convince  me  that  a  mole  is  as  beautiful  as 
a  bird,  because  it  is  fitted  to  burrow  under  the  ground 
and  hasn't  any  eyes.  Often  I  think  the  sea  will  reach 
us  somehow,  and  rush  in  and  claim  the  desert  for  its 
own!" 

[113] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

For  the  life  of  him,  he  couldn't  have  taken  her  seri- 
ously at  that  moment.  She  looked  so  pretty,  and  she 
was  so  angry.  Her  eyes  challenged  his  contradiction. 

"  It  hurts  me  to  have  you  like  the  desert.  I  feel  that 
you  are  siding  with  Theodore  against  me." 

"  Against  you !  "  he  echoed,  stung  to  the  quick. 

"  Then  why  do  you  say  you  like  it?  "  she  cried  pas- 
sionately, her  eyes  filling  with  tears.  "  It  is  a  land  of 
thirst  and  starvation.  Can  you  imagine  any  man 
naming  his  child  after  a  thing  which  would  grow  out 
here?  And  yet  Major  Armes  named  his  daughter 
after  the  yucca,  with  its  scentless  yellow  flowers  and 
its  thorns  like  spikes.  You  needn't  look  so  incredu- 
lous, Jarvey.  The  flowers  and  trees  have  thorns  like 
spikes,  great  spikes !  "  Her  dimples  came  and  went  at 
her  exaggeration.  She  continued  more  calmly.  "  I 
feel  as  if  I  were  in  an  evil  land,  and  that  all  the  rest  of 
you  have  taken  a  draught  from  some  witch's  cup,  so 
that  you  are  enchanted  and  can  see  beauty  only  in 
what  is  hideous.  I  believe  that  if  we  had  had  a  little 
daughter,  Theodore  would  have  wanted  to  name  her 
Cactus !  "  She  shuddered. 

He  could  not  help  laughing.  "  I  have  been  think- 
ing you  looked  very  young  and  pretty  as  you  sat  there 
scolding  me.  Was  that  a  delusion  on  my  part?  " 

Her  colour  rose.  "  Oh,  well,  you  know  what  I 
mean."  She  was  pleased.  "  And  you  think  Yucca 
Armes  is  beautiful.  I  can  see  that  you  do."  She  could 
[114] 


CHAPTER   EIGHT 

not  mention  the  girl's  name  in  that  connection  to  her 
husband,  but  she  would  scold  Jarvey  Trent  as  much 
as  she  pleased. 

"  You  read  a  great  deal  into  me,"  he  answered,  his 
amusement  deepening.  He  stooped  to  pick  up  one  of 
the  buttons  she  had  dropped,  and  restored  it  to  her 
work-basket.  It  no  longer  troubled  him  to  see  her 
using  the  gold  thimble  he  had  given  her  when  they 
were  engaged. 

She  spoke  rapidly,  as  though  it  were  a  relief.  "  If 
you  learn  to  like  the  desert  you  will  like  her.  You  can- 
not see  what  I  mean  now,  but  you  will  if  you  stay  long 
enough.  And  I  hate  her  as  I  hate  it.  I  cannot  see  her 
beauty."  There  was  a  silence.  When  she  finally 
broke  it  her  words  and  manner  were  humble.  "  I  do 
not  mean  that  I  do  not  like  her,  too.  She  has  always 
been  lovely  to  me  and  kind  to  the  children,  and  Theo- 
dore has  enjoyed  talking  to  her.  I  think  I  have  learned 
from  Theodore  not  to  be  severe  in  my  judgments.  She 
cannot  help  being  what  she  is.  Sometimes  I  don't  even 
think  she  knows  what  she  is  like,"  with  a  solemn  look. 
"  And  when  we  are  alone  together  I  love  her.  She  is 
the  only  congenial  woman  friend  I  have  out  here, 

but "     She  paused,  at  a  loss  to  explain  further 

what  she  felt,  and  sat  staring  helplessly  out  at  the 
sandy  road. 

"  My    poor    little    child ! "    he    cried,    forgetting 
everything  save  that  she  was  Adele,  whom  he  had 
[115] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

known  almost  since  her  babyhood.  All  the  chivalry  of 
his  strong  nature  was  wakened. 

"  Jarvey,"  she  said,  turning  to  him,  "  I  want  to  ask 
a  favour  of  you.  I  have  been  trying  for  days  to  see 
you  alone."  She  glanced  about  nervously,  as  if  even 
then  she  feared  there  might  be  someone  to  see  and 
hear  them. 

"  Yes,"  he  said  simply.  He  stood  ready  to  do  any- 
thing she  might  ask  of  him,  trusting  her  too  fully  to 
doubt  the  worthiness  of  the  request. 

"  I  don't  know  how  to  ask  it,"  she  said.  Her  cheeks 
were  burning.  "  I  want  you  to  lend  me  some  money." 

He  stammered  in  his  amazement.  "  It  is  all  yours 
—all  I  have." 

She  was  mortified  by  his  surprise.  "  You  do  not 
understand.  We  are  so  poor." 

He  was  filled  with  shame  that  he  had  forgotten  his 
friend's  poverty,  and  he  realised  that  for  the  first  time 
in  years  he  had  been  unconscious  of  either  poverty  or 
riches.  Even  his  investment  in  mining  property  had 
been  more  from  the  desire  to  have  some  foothold  on 
that  splendid  mountain  range  than  to  make  money. 
Adele  was  right.  This  was  a  land  of  enchantment 
which  made  a  man  forget. 

"  Lispenard  might  know  he  could  have  all  he  wished 

of  me,"  he  said,  for  he  concluded  that  there  was  some 

debt.     He  wondered  if  there  could  be  a  mortgage  on 

their  shabby  adobe  home,  if  the  salary  from  the  church 

[116] 


CHAPTER  EIGHT 

were  unpaid.  He  was  grateful  to  think  they  had  asked 
it  from  him  instead  of  Cozzens.  Yet,  as  he  witnessed 
her  painful  emotion  he  was  indignant  with  Lispenard 
for  getting  her  to  ask  for  the  money  for  him.  All 
that  instinct  of  protection  she  roused  in  him  fought 
fiercely  now  against  his  better  judgment. 

"  I  don't  want  Theodore  to  know  anything  about 
it,"  she  answered. 

"  You  shall  have  whatever  is  in  my  power  to  give," 
he  told  her. 

"  You  may  think  it  too  much,"  she  said  timidly. 

"  I  don't  think  so,"  he  said,  with  a  faint  smile.  "  I 
have  little  enough  use  for  my  money  as  it  is." 

"  Could  you  let  me  have  as  much  as  five  hundred 
dollars  ?  "  she  asked,  still  with  that  pitiful  timidity 
which  sat  so  ill  on  Adele. 

He  could  have  wept.  Five  hundred  dollars,  and  she 
could  have  his  fortune!  "When  would  you  like  it? 
I  can  give  it  to  you  now.  I  have  my  cheque-book  in 
my  pocket." 

"  If  you  please,"  she  said,  folding  up  the  shirtwaist 
and  laying  it  on  top  of  the  basket. 

He  followed  her  into  the  house,  and  she  cleared  a 
space  for  him  on  the  desk. 

"  Theodore  is  not  very  orderly,"  she  said,  with  a  lit- 
tle smile.  "  He  leaves  his  papers  scattered  all  about." 

He  wrote  the  cheque  out  and  handed  it  to  her  si- 
lently. 

[in] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

She  took  it  feverishly  and  thrust  it  into  the  front  of 
her  dress.  Then,  impulsively,  she  seized  his  hand  and 
pressed  it  tight  against  her  in  pure  gratitude.  "  Oh, 
Jarvey,  I  could  trust  you  so,  always,  always !  " 

"  It  is  nothing,  nothing,"  he  answered.  He  was  ag- 
onised by  the  scene  between  them,  and  rose  to  go. 

"  Jarvey,"  she  said,  "  you  have  always  been  so  good 
to  me.  Since  you  came  I  have  sometimes  thought  of 
the  past,  and She  hesitated. 

He  wished  she  would  spare  him  that.  He  could  not 
forget  that  while  Lispenard  stood  between  them  it 
were  better  that  no  mention  of  that  past  were  made. 
She  stood  very  near  him.  His  pulse  still  beat  to  the 
pressure  of  her  fingers  on  his  wrist  when,  a  moment 
since,  she  had  taken  his  hand  and  pressed  it  to  her. 
He  had  a  strange  reversal  of  feeling  to  a  scene  long 
gone  by.  He  seemed  to  be  standing  once  more  in  her 
father's  parlour  and  receiving  his  dismissal  anew,  be- 
cause she  loved  Lispenard.  Her  tears,  her  blushes, 
her  appeal,  put  him  at  her  mercy.  The  serenity  of  the 
past  weeks  was  gone — that  peace  of  heart  when  he  felt 
that  their  resumed  relationship  was  innocent  as  that  of 
their  childhood. 

" and  that  I  have  marred  your  life,"  she  con- 
tinued, "  and  I  hope  you  will  forgive  me." 

"  Adele,"  he  said,  "  I  can't  stand  it  to  have  you  talk 
that  way  to  me." 

His  grim  passion  appalled  her.  For  the  first  time 
[118] 


CHAPTER  EIGHT 

in  her  life  she  was  afraid  of  him.  She  watched  him 
go,  helpless  to  detain  him.  When  he  reached  the  gate 
he  looked  back  and  raised  his  hat  once  more.  Some- 
thing had  gone  out  of  his  smile;  it  was  no  longer 
eager.  She  went  into  her  bedroom  and  looked  at  her- 
self in  the  mirror.  Had  she  lost  her  charm  and  at- 
tractiveness? But  she  recalled  the  frank  admiration 
in  his  eyes  when  she  had  been  sitting  beside  him  on  the 
porch,  and  knew  her  fear  in  that  respect  was  ground- 
less. She  could  not  give  up  the  tribute  of  his  long 
devotion.  It  had  been  like  balm  to  her  heart,  so 
wounded  by  her  husband's  indifference.  She  saw  sud- 
denly, with  absolute  clearness,  that  her  humiliation  at 
asking  a  favour  from  him  had  betrayed  her  into  the 
fatal  mistake  of  asking  his  pardon  for  the  past.  In 
her  gratitude  for  the  money,  her  impulse  had  been  to 
atone  for  what  was  long  gone  by,  and  she  had  felt  his 
instinctive  lack  of  assent  to  her  words. 

Trent  closed  the  gate  with  a  strange  sinking  of  the 
spirits.  The  day  had  lost  its  glamour;  the  enchant- 
ment was  gone.  As  he  walked  by  the  Santa  Ines  Mis- 
sion he  saw  that  the  rose  vine  clambering  over  the  yel- 
low wall  looked  dry  and  withered  in  the  hot  sunshine. 
The  light  hurt  his  eyes.  Miss  Armes  passed  him  on 
her  way  home  from  downtown,  and  he  experienced 
afresh  the  old  throb  of  antagonism  as  he  returned  her 
bow.  He  felt  that  her  grave  eyes  divined  his  spiritual 
inquietude.  He  had  his  horse  saddled,  and  went 
[119] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

for  a  long  ride,  taking  a  new  direction  to  the  west. 
He  felt  that  he  could  have  ridden  on  forever,  fol- 
lowing the  steadily  declining  sun.  The  solitary 
grandeur  increased,  seeming  to  absorb  him  and  his 
horse,  until  he  felt  that  he  was  the  only  witness  of  the 
passing  of  the  day.  The  breeze  blew  along  the  ground, 
raising  the  sand  in  tiny  swirls.  Through  all  his  loy- 
alty to  Adele  a  strain  of  newborn  condemnation  beat, 
a  persistent  pulse  that  would  not  lose  itself.  Her 
vanity  had  spoken  in  that  reference  to  the  past.  It 
was  the  appeal  of  the  woman  who,  knowing  that  she 
still  is  loved,  asks  forgiveness  of  her  coquetry. 

Had  she  really  cared  anything  for  him  she  would 
not  have  hurt  him  by  speaking  of  those  days.  He  saw 
more  clearly  than  ever  before  that  she  was  absorbed  in 
her  husband  and  children.  Had  she  become  conven- 
tional and  uninteresting  to  him  all  in  a  moment?  Her 
words  had  given  him  a  shock  of  surprise.  He  did  not 
regard  his  life  as  marred.  It  was  full  of  interests  and 
ambitions  of  which  she  knew  nothing.  Her  romantic 
vanity  had  made  her  overestimate  her  power.  She  had 
read  more  into  his  moods  of  loyalty  to  the  old  ideal 
than  was  really  there,  and  her  over-statement  revealed 
him  to  himself  as  nothing  else  could  have  done.  He 
drew  up  his  horse,  that  he  might  sit  still  to  watch  the 
majesty  of  the  fast-dropping  sun,  fiery-red  as  it  ap- 
proached the  heated  horizon.  He  had  seen  it  go  down 
so  over  a  desolate  waste  of  ocean.  He  recalled  Lispen- 
[  120] 


CHAPTER  EIGHT 

ard's  words — "  The  conventions  one  thinks  moral 
might  well  cease."  Had  his  love  for  Adele  been  but  a 
convention  with  him?  Was  he,  too,  changing;  were 
his  convictions,  his  ideals,  shifting  like  the  shifting 
sands  that  gave  to  his  horse's  feet? 

The  spirit  of  the  desert  spoke  to  him,  full  of  sub- 
limity and  melancholy.  He  wondered  if  Adele  would 
give  up  the  world  for  the  man  she  loved,  and  he 
thought  not.  It  was  better  so,  as  things  were  in  the 
world,  but  for  himself — rather  the  passionate  heart, 
although  it  entailed  the  mistaken  judgment. 

He  returned  late,  and  dined  alone  that  evening  at 
Campi's.  Cozzens  was  out  of  town.  He  did  not  call 
in  the  evening  as  he  had  been  accustomed  to  do,  and 
Lispenard  missed  him  so  that  later  in  the  evening  he 
hunted  him  up  and  found  him  in  the  balcony  at  the 
hotel,  and  spent  an  hour  or  so  with  him.  He,  too,  was 
in  a  depressed  mood,  saddened  by  the  death  of  his  old 
parishioner,  who  had  been  unwilling  to  go. 

"  After  all  his  devotion  to  the  Church,  he  had  no 
more  confidence  than  you  might  have,  Jarvey." 

"  I  have  no  fear,  my  dear  fellow,"  Trent  answered, 
with  one  of  his  infrequent  smiles.  He  laid  his  hand 
affectionately  on  his  friend's  knee.  "  What  do  you 
say  to  getting  the  boys  and  your  wife  and  Miss  Armes, 
and  having  some  kind  of  a  picnic  at  Campi's?  Ma- 
dame Campi  informed  me  she  had  too  much  ice-cream 
left  over  from  dinner,  that  the  guests  to-night  all  went 
[121] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

to  pic.  She  was  much  annoyed,  for  pie  will  keep  over 
and  ice-cream  won't.  I  don't  want  to  miss  any  time 
with  you  all,  for  I  find  I  shall  have  to  go  in  a  day  or 
two.  My  business  demands  it." 

He  knew  that  Adele  would  be  relieved  to  see  him 
after  the  scene  of  the  afternoon.  She  met  him  easily, 
with  no  consciousness  save  that  of  gratitude  in  her 
manner.  Several  times  during  the  evening  he  caught 
her  looking  at  him  with  such  sweetness  and  affection 
that  he  felt  he  had  done  her  an  injustice  in  his 
thought.  Her  evident  trust  in  him  awakened  his 
chivalry  anew. 

And  she  was  pleased.  Her  tact  had  sprung  from 
desperation.  If  he  deserted  her  after  his  years  of 
faithfulness  she  must  indeed  have  lost  her  charm. 

He  went  home  after  his  little  party  that  night  and 
wondered  what  she  wished  the  money  for  and  thought 
of  her  as  of  a  child  who  begged  money  innocently  to 
make  a  gift  to  someone.  He  knew  her  well  enough 
to  be  sure  she  did  not  wish  it  for  herself,  and  it  flashed 
into  his  mind  that  she  had  asked  for  it  that  she  might 
follow  his  example  and  make  some  mining  invest- 
ment for  the  boys. 


[122] 


CHAPTER  IX 

WHEN  Mrs.  Lispenard  found  herself  and  the 
boys  on  the  great  Overland  train  as  it 
pulled  out  of  Sahuaro,  she  realised  her  dar- 
ing for  the  first  time.  She  had  contrived  that  her 
departure  should  be  a  surprise,  and  had  started  before 
the  familiar  crowd  at  the  depot  realised  her  inten- 
tion. It  had  been  easy  to  make  Tiggy  accompany 
her,  but  Jim  was  so  obstinate  that  he  brought  her  to 
scolding  and  tears.  She  had  told  him  her  plans  after 
exacting  a  promise  of  secrecy,  but  it  was  not  until 
she  threatened  to  go  on  alone  with  his  brother  that  a 
fine  feeling  of  chivalry  toward  his  pretty  mother  made 
the  boy  consent  to  go  with  them.  He  felt  that 
neither  she  nor  Tiggy  was  able  to  look  out  for  the 
other,  and  he  was  reassured  by  her  promise  to  let  him 
go  directly  home  if  he  did  not  like  the  place  to  which 
she  was  taking  him.  His  moment  of  parting  was  there- 
fore made  bearable  by  the  anticipation  of  immediate 
return  after  they  had  once  touched  their  destination. 
She  herself  was  buoyed  up  by  excitement.  When 
the  last  call  for  supper  sounded  she  led  them  through 
to  the  dining  car.  None  of  them  had  eaten  much  for 
tea,  which  she  had  served  earlier  than  usual  that  she 
might  leave  everything  in  order. 
[123] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

Tiggy  played  with  the  dishes  the  waiter  brought 
him.  He  tasted  some  of  each,  but  was  too  happy  to 
be  hungry.  He  saw  the  reflection  of  the  lamps  in  the 
polished  silver  and  glass.  The  faces  of  the  deft,  white- 
aproned  negroes  shone  as  they  carried  the  trays  of 
food.  It  was  very  puzzling  to  pick  out  their  own  man, 
and  he  made  the  mistake  of  smiling  at  the  wrong  one. 
The  bread  was  cut  in  squares  on  a  silver  boat,  and 
the  steak  was  on  a  silver  platter,  with  a  big  silver 
bowl  on  top  to  keep  it  warm.  It  was  like  being  in  a 
fairy  palace.  He  kept  turning  his  little,  well-brushed, 
blond  head  to  see  what  was  going  on  behind  him. 
He  smiled  at  his  mother  across  the  table.  It  was  she 
who  had  brought  him  to  see  all  this.  For  once  he  was 
silent,  when  he  might  have  talked. 

Luxury  had  never  seemed  more  desirable  to  Mrs. 
Lispenard.  She  could  see  herself  and  her  two  boys  in 
the  mirror  at  the  end  of  the  car;  Tiggy's  dear  little 
person,  and  Jim,  unhappy,  sullen,  but  undeniably 
handsome.  She  wished  she  might  have  a  portrait 
painted  of  them  all  together.  There  were  only  two 
men  besides  themselves  left  in  the  dining  car,  and  she 
was  conscious  that  they  looked  at  her  with  admira- 
tion. She  lingered  over  her  black  coffee,  and  peeled 
a  peach  prettily  for  Tiggy.  She  experienced  neither 
anxiety  nor  longing  for  her  husband  in  this  new  en- 
vironment. 

She  had  telegraphed  her  brother  to  expect  them. 
[124] 


CHAPTER    NINE 

He  was  a  physician  in  a  New  England  city,  and  as 
both  he  and  his  wife  were  fond  of  children  she  knew 
their  nephews  would  be  welcome.  There  was  a  fa- 
mous private  school  for  boys  near  them  at  which  Jim 
could  be  a  day  scholar. 

When  they  returned  to  their  own  section  the  twi- 
light still  lingered,  and  they  sat  looking  from  the 
window  until  it  was  time  to  go  to  sleep.  The  sky  was 
dark,  save  for  a  strip  of  pale  gold  in  the  west.  Cacti 
whirled  by  in  that  gray  air,  dim,  sinister  forms  with 
crooked  arms  outthrust  as  if  they  would  detain  her. 
"  The  desert  looks  as  if  everything  had  gone  to  bed, 
Mamma,"  said  Tiggy. 

She  drew  him  closer.  Jim  sat  opposite  them,  look- 
ing from  the  window  without  speaking. 

"  The  two  princes  have  run  away  from  the  tower," 
Tiggy  said.  He  liked  to  fancy  that  the  picture  above 
the  fireplace  in  the  living  room  at  home  represented 
himself  and  Jim. 

The  great  train  sped  on  and  on,  and  yet  the  desert 
grew  no  less.  Mountain  ranges  rose  to  their  vision 
and  vanished;  but  always  the  whirling  sands,  always 
the  threatening  cacti!  Mrs.  Lispenard's  imagination 
ran  riot.  She  felt  that  the  desert  was  putting  a  curse 
upon  her  in  revenge  for  her  defiant  hatred  of  it.  The 
gold  faded  from  the  horizon  line  into  a  pale  and 
chilly  grey. 

The  porter  began  to  make  up  the  berths,  and  she 
[125] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

ordered  the  boys'  made  up  first.  When  they  were  in 
bed,  and  she  had  kissed  them  good-night  and  drawn 
the  heavy  curtains,  she  went  back  to  the  window.  It 
was  a  night  of  darkness,  unrelieved  by  moon  or  stars. 
Through  the  half-open  window  the  air  poured  in 
warm  and  dry,  the  desert  air,  with  the  old,  old  smell 
of  the  desert  in  it.  Could  she  never  escape  it?  The 
speed  of  the  train  seemed  ineffectual,  its  mad  race 
hopeless.  It  stopped,  and  she  looked  out  upon  the 
typical  plaza  of  a  desert  town,  a  duplicate  of  Sa- 
huaro.  She  felt  that  they  had  described  a  circle  and 
returned  to  their  starting  place. 

She  arose  and  went  to  the  boys'  berth.  Tiggy 
awoke  while  she  looked  at  him. 

"What  is  it,  darling?"  she  asked.  "Shall  I 
bring  you  a  drink  ?  " 

He  had  his  father's  way  of  smiling  an  assent  with- 
out speaking.  When  she  returned  with  the  water  he 
drank  it  thirstily,  and  lay  down  again  to  instant 
slumber.  Jim  raised  himself  on  his  elbow.  "  I  can't 
sleep,"  he  said  moodily. 

He  forgot  his  chivalrous  protection  of  his  mother 
in  his  own  need  of  comfort.  She  kissed  him  and 
promised  that  if  he  were  not  happy  in  the  East  he 
might  return  at  once.  She  began  to  suffer  from  a 
strange  humiliation,  for  she  felt  that  the  boy  was  her 
judge.  His  distress  was  not  entirely  due  to  home- 
sickness, but  partly  to  his  conviction  that  she  was  do- 
[126] 


CHAPTER    NINE 

ing  wrong.  He  had  asked  her  where  she  got  the 
money  for  the  trip,  and  she  had  evaded  the  question. 
She  knew  that  he  had  not  been  satisfied  with  her  ex- 
planation, that  his  father  was  not  to  be  told  because 
he  would  oppose  their  going.  Jim  knew  that  the 
mystery  lay  deeper  than  that,  and  was  concerned  with 
the  money  for  the  journey. 

She  sat  beside  him  until  he  slept  as  quietly  as 
Tiggy,  then  she  went  to  the  dressing  room  to  make 
herself  comfortable  for  the  night.  Her  sense  of  lux- 
ury increased.  She  was  extravagant  with  the  five 
hundred  dollars  Trent  had  given  her.  She  could  have 
travelled  in  the  tourist  car,  but  had  chosen  to  take  a 
Pullman  section.  The  other  passengers  had  long  since 
gone  to  bed,  and  so  she  had  the  dressing  room  undis- 
turbed. As  Tiggy  had  been  delighted  with  the  silver 
and  glass  in  the  dining-room  car  so  now  she  was 
pleased  with  the  mirrors  which  lined  the  room;  the 
polished  nickel  basins;  the  faucets  running  hot  and 
cold  water ;  the  plentiful  supply  of  clean  towels.  She 
remembered  that  her  own  linen  towels  at  home  were 
wearing  out,  but  she  did  not  care.  She  had  patched 
and  darned  them  so  often  that  there  was  little  of  the 
original  fabric  left.  She  took  out  her  hairpins  and  let 
down  her  long,  thick  hair.  It  fell  about  her  face,  and 
white  arms,  and  shoulders,  and  made  her  look  like  a 
girl  again.  The  several  mirrors  gave  her  back  to  her- 
self as  though  they  should  say :  "  You  are  still  young 
[127] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

and  beautiful,  the  world  is  before  you."  Her  thought 
in  starting  had  been  only  for  her  children.  Now  she 
forgot  them  in  the  freshness  with  which  her  own 
beauty  came  to  her.  There  was  much  of  the  actress 
in  her  nature,  and  she  watched  her  smiling  reflection 
grow  pensive  and  her  eyes  darken  tragically.  Her 
heart  beat  high  with  exultation;  youth,  for  beauty 
was  youth,  looking  back  to  her  from  the  mirrors, 
flooded  her  being.  Now  after  fifteen  years  she  was 
going  home.  Lispenard  became  but  a  memory  in  her 
present  mood.  She  and  the  boys — they  three. 

As  she  stepped  from  the  dressing  room  the  conduc- 
tor passing  through  opened  an  outside  door,  and  the 
air  blew  in  upon  her,  still  the  desert  air.  Her  spirit 
shrank  within  her  as  she  crept  into  her  berth  and  lay 
there  shivering.  All  her  courage  had  departed,  and  she 
lay  awake  until  the  heavens  began  to  grow  less  dense. 
Then  she  turned  on  her  pillow  and  shut  her  eyes 
against  seeing  another  dawn  brighten  over  the  desert. 

Jarvis  Trent  had  seen  Mrs.  Lispenard  depart  with 
her  two  boys  in  that  general  whirl  of  amazement,  and 
had  stood  staring  after  the  train  until  it  became  but 
a  speck  on  the  far-narrowing  track.  Then,  anxious  to 
escape  the  comments  of  the  crowd,  he  turned  and 
walked  away  with  a  vision  of  Jim's  tragic  young  face 
peering  out  of  the  moving  window.  It  was  not  only 
to  Lispenard  she  had  said  good-bye  in  so  cavalier  a 
fashion,  but  also  to  him.  As  he  thought  of  her  hus- 
[128] 


CHAPTER    NINE 

band  he  realised  gloomily  how  shabby  his  own  action 
would  now  look  in  having  given  her  the  money  she  had 
asked  of  him.  He  was  in  the  pretty  position  of  giv- 
ing a  woman  money  enough  to  run  away  from  her 
husband  and  take  her  children  as  well.  Strangely 
enough  he  felt  no  pang  just  yet  at  her  departure,  but 
only  those  waves  of  anger  with  her  which  he  used  to 
experience  during  their  brief  engagement.  Adele, 
tender,  weeping,  unhappy,  won  his  finest  chivalry, 
but  this  calculation  of  independence  on  her  part 
angered  him.  He  could  not  admit  even  to  himself 
that  his  anger  was  due  to  the  wound  she  dealt  him  in 
leaving  without  the  slightest  farewell.  He  felt  now 
that  he  had  parted  from  her  twice,  but  his  thoughts 
dwelt  persistently  on  Lispenard,  and  the  position  in 
which  the  man  was  placed.  Adele  had  failed  in  his 
ideas  of  honour  as  once  before  when  she  had  played 
fast  and  loose  with  them  both.  At  last  he  went  back 
to  the  town  after  a  long  walk,  and  met  Lispenard 
wandering  about. 

"  Have  you  seen  my  wife?  "  he  asked. 

"  Good  Lord !  "  said  Trent  to  himself,  mentally 
cursing  his  worldly  fortune  which  had  enabled  him  to 
lend  Adele  the  money.  "  I  saw  her  go  off  on  the 
train,"  he  added  aloud. 

"  On  the  train ! "  Lispenard  echoed,  and  gazed  at 
his  friend  amazed.  "  Why  should  my  wife  go  with- 
out a  word  to  me?  " 

[129] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

he  asked,  and  sat  down  suddenly  on  the  steps  of  the 
depot  as  if  grown  weak. 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Trent. 

Lispenard  stared  into  the  plaza  without  a  word, 
and  Trent  felt  that  it  was  due  him  to  tell  him  all  he 
knew,  although  it  was  breaking  faith  with  Adele. 
"  She  asked  me  for  a  loan  of  five  hundred  dollars 
about  a  week  ago.  Of  course  I  never  thought  it  was 
for  this.  I  thought  she  wanted  it  for  you  and  the 
children." 

His  companion  raised  his  head  slowly  and  looked  up 
at  the  balcony  with  a  smile  of  amusement  and  con- 
tempt. "  Haydon  is  above  there  listening  to  us."  He 
called  up  to  him.  "  Come  down.  I  want  to  speak  to 
you." 

The  station-master  obeyed.  The  flickering  light  of 
the  kerosene  lamp  at  the  door  of  the  depot  showed 
Lispenard's  eyes  cold  and  keen  as  he  looked  up  at 
him.  "  Did  you  know  Mrs.  Lispenard  was  going 
away?  " 

"  Well,  she  kind  of  took  me  into  her  confidence," 
answered  Haydon ;  "  you  see,  I  was  to  see  her  trunk 
went  all  right.  I  got  it  down  after  dark  last  night, 
and " 

"  That  will  do,"  said  Lispenard  with  a  gesture  as 
though  the  conversation  sickened  him.    Trent  saw  that 
he  controlled  himself  with  an  effort,  and  forced  himself 
to  continue  the  conversation  with  the  man. 
[130] 


CHAPTER    NINE 

"  Keep  whatever  she  told  you  to  yourself.  A  lady's 
confidence  is  sacred,"  with  an  effort  at  lightness,  "  and 
remember  that  I  trust  you  as  one  gentleman  trusts 
another,  Haydon."  He  rose  slowly. 

He  did  not  seem  to  see  Trent's  proffered  hand. 
He  held  his  walking-stick  by  either  end  in  his  own 
hands. 

"  Good-night,"  he  said,  with  a  nod  which  included 
both  men  impartially,  and  Trent  felt  as  if  he  had  been 
struck.  He  watched  the  grey-clad,  youthful  figure, 
the  moonlight  falling  aslant  the  white  sombrero;  he 
caught  the  poise  of  the  head  held  high  from  pride, 
but  resting  back  as  if  heavy  from  learning.  He  was 
doomed  to  feel  again  all  the  old  sick,  angry  resentment 
at  Adele's  unfaithfulness,  but  this  time  it  was  for  the 
sake  of  another  man,  not  for  himself. 

It  was  not  until  he  reached  his  own  gate  that  Lis- 
penard  remembered  his  sons.  Well,  he  would  tell  them 
that  their  mother  had  stolen  away  on  a  visit,  and  they 
must  try  to  be  as  content  as  they  could  with  him  until 
she  came  back.  At  first  he  could  not  realise  she  was 
gone,  and  he  sat  down  in  a  house  unnaturally 
still. 

The  events  of  the  past  ten  days  kept  coming  back 
to  him.  Now  through  the  memory  of  his  happiness 
in  his  wife's  recent  newborn  content  he  heard  sound- 
ing the  note  of  her  departure.  He  remembered  that 
he  had  not  noticed  whether  the  boys  had  come  in  yet 
[131] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

and  gone  to  bed.  He  went  to  their  room.  The  little 
white  bed  was  undisturbed.  The  pillows  stood  up 
primly.  The  shams  had  not  been  folded  away  for 
the  night,  nor  the  counterpane  turned  back.  He 
wondered  that  he  could  have  thought  even  for  a  mo- 
ment that  she  would  have  gone  without  Jim  and 
Tiggy.  Their  absence  did  not  change  the  situation, 
but  only  increased  the  loneliness.  He  was  sure  she 
must  have  left  some  message  for  him. 

When  he  finally  found  a  letter  fastened  to  their  pin- 
cushion on  the  bureau  of  their  room,  it  seemed  so 
typical  of  the  situation  that  he  could  not  resist  smil- 
ing and  caught  the  reflection  of  his  amusement  in  the 
mirror.  Poor  little  Adele !  All  desert  life  which  could 
not  conceal  itself  in  the  ground,  nor  feign  appear- 
ance of  sand  or  vegetation,  must  either  fly  or  fight  if 
it  would  exist.  And  Adele,  to  whom  happiness  meant 
existence,  could  not  fight,  so  she  had  deceived  him  and 
run  away !  He  experienced  none  of  the  anger  toward 
her  which  had  filled  Trent.  "  The  love  of  the  adven- 
ture of  life."  It  actuated  them  all.  He  read  her 
letter  as  he  stood  there  by  the  bureau.  It  was  full  of 
serene  confidence  that  he  would  neither  judge  nor  con- 
demn her. 

"  I  know  you  would  have  talked  away  my  plans, 

dear  Theodore,"  she  wrote,  "  and  so  I  did  not  tell  you. 

When  I  have  seen  the  boys  well  established  with  my 

brother,  who  has  always  been  willing  to  pay  for  their 

[132] 


CHAPTER    NINE 

schooling,  I  will  return."  And  she  had  added  in  a 
postscript : 

"  I  do  not  know  that  we  need  feel  much  indebted  to 
Jarvey  for  the  money.  After  all,  it  was  my  father  who 
gave  him  his  start  in  life.  But  of  course  it  was  lovely 
of  Jarvey  to  give  it  to  me." 

It  was  so  feminine  to  Lispenard  that  when  she  saw 
no  way  of  returning  the  money  she  had  borrowed,  she 
should  seek  an  easy  way  out  of  her  difficulty.  He 
folded  the  little  note  and  placed  it  in  the  drawer  of  the 
bureau.  He  would  have  to  find  some  way  to  pay  Trent 
back.  He  returned  to  the  living  room,  where  he  had 
lighted  the  lamp,  and  looked  about  him.  Even  the 
light  could  not  make  the  room  seem  aught  but  gloomy. 
He  thought  of  the  other  rooms  in  the  house,  yawning 
darkly,  and  realised  his  own  sensations  with  interest 
and  appreciation.  He  saw  how  it  was  that  imagina- 
tive men  had  summoned  ghosts  up  in  deserted  houses. 
Already  his  own  abode  was  acquiring  a  personality 
that  creaked  and  whisperedt 


[133] 


CHAPTER  X 

TRENT  would  gladly  have  left  town  the  next 
day  as  he  had  originally  planned,  but  he  was 
too  much  a  man  of  the  world  not  to  fear  the 
interpretation  his  immediate  departure  might  put  on 
Mrs.  Lispenard's  flight.  For  the  first  time  he  went 
voluntarily  and  alone  to  cah1  on  Miss  Armes,  craving 
society  other  than  Haydon's  in  his  desolate  mood.  He 
had  not  seen  Lispenard  all  day,  and  it  was  a  disheart- 
ening experience  to  him  to  pass  by  the  small  house 
across  the  street  nestling  in  the  shadow  of  the  old  mis- 
sion. Santa  Ines  was  bathed  in  the  light  of  sunset,  and 
he  recalled  Theodore's  words,  that  it  was  like  a  gra- 
cious presence  in  Sahuaro.  Peace  seemed  to  hover  over 
it  like  the  wings  of  an  invisible  dove  ever  ready  to 
descend  upon  that  person,  who,  in  passing,  paused  to 
receive  it.  And  legends,  like  birds,  fluttered  about  it, 
their  charm  not  to  be  caught  in  the  printed  page; 
legends  of  the  Jesuit  fathers  and  the  pious  Indians 
who  had  built  the  mission  with  fearful  toil  and  tribu- 
lation. Trent  had  already  heard  several  of  them ;  they 
were  the  folk-lore  of  the  people  of  Sahuaro.  The 
bronze  bells  continued  to  hold  their  music  like  a  very 
old  person  in  whom  the  spirit  remained  sweet.  Trent 
wondered  as  he  walked  on  at  the  purely  artistic  pleas- 
[  134] 


CHAPTER     TEN 

ure  to  be  gained  from  a  building  in  absolute  harmony 
with  the  landscape. 

He  caught  no  glimpse  of  Lispenard,  although  his 
front  door  was  open  and  he  knew  he  must  be  within. 
The  hurt  of  last  night  still  lingered,  and  that  experi- 
ence made  him  feel  that  he  might  be  misunderstood, 
and  his  call  taken  to  be  either  as  one  of  curiosity  or 
condolence.  To  be  misunderstood  by  Theodore!  It 
was  incredible.  He  was  going  to  call  on  Miss  Armes, 
driven  there  by  sheer  loneliness.  He  did  not  find  her 
at  home.  Not  even  old  brown  Teresa  came  to  the 
door.  Life  was  informal  in  Sahuaro,  and,  if  it  were 
inconvenient  to  go  to  the  door,  people  who  called 
walked  about  the  square  and  came  back  again.  And 
.  when  he  rapped  this  evening  the  Senora  Teresa  was  up 
in  her  room  telling  her  rosary. 

Trent  retraced  his  steps  to  the  plaza.  The  train 
had  not  yet  come  in,  but  the  people  had  already 
gathered  in  that  welcome  spot  of  greenness ;  the  steam 
was  rising  through  the  white  cloth  which  covered  the 
hot  tamales  for  sale  by  the  old  Mexican  woman;  two 
young  Spaniards  strolled  about  smoking  cigarettes; 
on  the  balcony  above  the  young  woman  who  ran  the 
lunch  counter  stood  ready  to  ring  her  big  brass  bell 
for  supper.  It  was  all  so  familiar  to  him  now,  so  un- 
changed, and  yet  soabsolutely  changed  since  Adele's  de- 
parture. He  saw  the  chair  which  had  been  hers  unoccu- 
pied, and  he  went  on  anxious  to  escape  from  the  scene. 
[135] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

Without  the  plaza,  and  just  beyond  the  railroad 
track,  sat  the  row  of  Indian  women,  their  blankets 
drawn  over  their  heads  up  to  their  eyes,  and  their 
pottery  placed  in  front  of  them  for  sale.  He  was 
about  to  go  on  when  he  was  arrested  by  the  upward 
glance  of  one  very  old  woman,  and  he  remembered 
being  told  by  Hay  don  that  she  was  famous  in  her  tribe 
for  her  pottery.  It  was  not  the  first  time  her  bead- 
bright  eyes  had  arrested  his  attention,  and  now  it 
dawned  upon  him  that  she  resented  his  indifference  to 
her  art. 

With  some  amusement  and  real  sympathy,  he  se- 
lected a  vase  exquisitely  shaped,  and  paid  her.  His 
purchase  he  put  behind  a  bunch  of  sage  until  he 
should  return  from  his  walk.  He  struck  off  straight 
into  the  desert,  taking  the  trail  which  led  to  the 
mountains. 

Far  ahead  of  him  he  saw  Miss  Armes.  As  he 
drew  nearer  he  saw  that  she  was  bareheaded ;  a 
pale  pink  shawl  was  gathered  loosely  around  her 
shoulders,  and  her  trailing  skirt  brushed  an  almost  in- 
perceptible  cloud  of  sand.  He  saw  her  pause  to  pick 
a  cactus  blossom.  In  that  vast  desert  she  had  the 
air  of  a  lady  walking  in  her  own  garden.  He  was 
somehow  amazed  at  her,  and  she  seemed  possessed  of 
great  egotism. 

"  Have  you  come  out  to  see  the  sunset?  "  he  asked. 
"  I  have  just  been  to  call  on  you." 
[136] 


CHAPTER    TEN 

She  turned,  surprised.  "  I  thought  I  was  all  alone. 
I  often  come  out  at  this  hour." 

As  they  walked  on  he  was  conscious  that  it  was  the 
first  time  they  had  ever  been  alone  together,  and  he 
felt  that  she  was  displeased.  She  was  tall,  but  he 
looked  with  ease  over  her  fair  head ;  she  was  so  delicate 
that  it  made  him  realise  anew  his  own  strength,  and 
this  made  him  experience  a  curious  triumph.  From 
the  beginning  of  their  acquaintance  he  knew  she  had 
disliked  and  defied  him.  Yet  he  had  but  to  put  out  his 
arm  and  he  could  keep  her  there  at  his  will.  He  looked 
over  the  wide  desert,  and  he  had  a  strange  feeling  as  if 
he  and  she  had  drifted  far  out  to  sea. 

They  sat  down  on  a  shelving  rock  rising  like  a 
shoulder  out  of  the  sand.  Back  of  them  were  some  tall 
fluted  cacti  like  broken  Doric  columns,  and  before  them 
stretched  the  mesquite,  silvery-green  in  the  level  light 
from  the  bright  horizon.  The  air  was  being  woven 
into  crepe-like  veils  of  pink  and  blue  above  the  moun- 
tain peaks. 

They  heard  the  shrill  scream  of  the  Overland,  and 
turned  to  see  it  rush  like  some  black  monster  into  the 
landscape,  curving  to  its  track  and  revealing  its  great 
length ;  puffing  into  the  station  and  shutting  out  their 
view  of  the  plaza.  They  saw  the  engine  uncoupled 
and  driven  off  to  the  big  red  water-tank,  and  finally 
taken  back. 

Trent  watched  it  depart  and  fade  to  a  black  speck 
[137] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

in  the  distance  with  a  feeling  of  poignant  sadness  as 
he  realised  how  soon  it  would  bear  him  away.  He  had 
been  eager  to  go  that  morning,  but  now  he  was  reluc- 
tant, and  he  was  scornful  of  his  own  weakness  in  wish- 
ing to  remain  sentimentally  in  a  place  merely  because 
Adele  had  been  there. 

He  turned  suddenly,  startled  to  find  that  he  had 
so  far  forgotten  the  conventionalities  of  life  that  he 
had  not  spoken  to  Miss  Armes  for  some  time.  It 
seemed  impossible  that  she  should  not  resent  it,  and 
yet  he  had  not  been  unconscious  of  her  presence  beside 
him.  He  glanced  down  at  her  serene  profile,  her  hands 
clasped  lightly  about  her  knee,  and  realised  that  she 
had  evidently  forgotten  him  as  well. 

"  Mrs.  Lispenard  will  not  reach  her  destination  un- 
til day  after  to-morrow,"  she  remarked. 

"  Then  you  know  where  she  is  going,"  he  said  in 
some  surprise,  wondering  if  she  had  seen  Lispenard 
since  last  night. 

"  Oh,  I  knew,"  she  answered. 

"  Did  she  tell  you?  "  he  asked  in  an  amazement  he 
took  no  pains  to  conceal.  Could  she  have  connived 
with  Adele  in  this  impulsive  departure?  He  remem- 
bered the  girl's  infatuation  for  Lispenard,  and  looked 
at  her  sternly. 

"  No,  indeed,"  she  told  him.  "  It  was  Tiggy.  That 
is,  the  child  came  to  beg  me  to  do  something  for  him 
while  he  was  gone  away.     He  told  me  his  mother 
[138] 


CHAPTER    TEN 

wished  him  to  keep  it  secret.  I  knew  as  well  as  if  I 
had  been  told  where  she  was  going.  She  has  been 
anxious  for  a  long  time  to  put  Jim  in  school." 

He  knew  that  she  must  wonder  where  Mrs.  Lispen- 
ard  had  obtained  the  money. 

"  Do  you  see  how  the  sunset  shadows  are  falling  to- 
night? "  she  asked  him,  and  he  saw  that  she  wished  to 
discontinue  the  subject.  "  Do  you  see  how  the  top  of 
that  third  mountain  is  worn  into  points  by  the  winds 
and  sand-storms,  and  how  the  front  of  it  is  fluted?  I 
please  myself  by  thinking  it  is  a  great  organ,  and  the 
wind  is  the  musician." 

"  You  love  music,"  he  said,  noting  her  expression. 

"  Have  I  never  played  for  you?  "  she  rejoined. 
"  Why,  you  have  never  been  in  but  one  room  in  my 
house,  have  you?  I  have  my  piano  in  the  parlour, 
where  my  father's  picture  is."  She  added  after  a  mo- 
ment, "  He  was  killed  by  the  Indians." 

"  So  Mr.  Lispenard  told  me,"  he  said. 

"  Yes,"  she  said.  "  He  admired  my  father.  If 
it  had  not  been  for  him  I  should  not  have  gotten 
over  it,  ever,  I  think.  They  would  not  tell  me 
how  bad  it  was,  and  I  imagined  it,  which  was  worse,  I 
think.  But  Mr.  Lispenard  made  me  see  how  my 
father  must  have  been  happier  to  die  fighting  than  to 
die  in  his  bed  after  a  lingering  illness  had  broken 
his  spirit.  I  shall  never  forget  how  he  insisted  that 
his  soul  must  have  sprung  forth  armed  with  victory 
[139] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

from  his  poor  body."  She  shivered.  "  They  never 
let  me  see  him — afterwards.  But  I  am  glad  now  to 
think  that  his  spirit  was  never  discouraged  by  a  sick- 
ness that  would  have  been  unendurable  to  him." 

He  was  impressed  anew  by  her  intellectuality.  Most 
women  would  have  refused  to  accept  such  comfort,  he 
thought. 

And  Theodore  who  had  given  it  to  her !  He  looked 
away.  "  You  love  him,"  he  said ;  "  you  love  Lispen- 
ard."  He  could  not  have  explained  why  his  own  heart 
was  beating  so  heavily,  and  there  was  a  moment  of 
darkness  to  his  eyes.  His  ill-advised  speech  echoed  in 
his  own  ears  and  made  him  ashamed.  What  right 
had  he  to  accuse  this  woman  and  bring  her  to  confu- 
sion? The  words  had  spoken  themselves  almost  with- 
out his  will. 

She  made  no  reply. 

He  saw  her  looking  straight  ahead  of  her,  unal- 
tered, as  if  she  had  not  heard  his  brutal  words.  The 
afterglow,  bright  as  a  second  sunset,  spread  over  the 
dun  desert  and  turned  her  ash-coloured  hair  to  gold. 
For  one  confused  moment  it  seemed  to  him  that  the 
air,  weaving  such  magical  veils,  had  woven  one  about 
her,  and  that  he  saw  her  through  an  illusion.  He  had 
expected  to  look  into  the  face  of  a  woman  his  unpar- 
donable words  had  humiliated.  He  saw  a  counte- 
nance of  touching  fairness,  too  calm  to  be  triumphant. 
He  had  accused  her  of  loving  Lispenard.  Now,  with 
[140] 


CHAPTER    TEN 

a  sinking  of  his  spirit,  he  read  her  smile.    It  was  Lis- 
penard  who  loved  her. 

Adele's  words  returned  to  him  like  a  prophecy: 
"  If  you  learn  to  like  the  desert  you  will  like  her. 
You  cannot  see  what  I  mean  now,  but  you  will  if  you 
stay  long  enough."  A  veil  was  torn  from  his  eyes. 
In  her  own  person  she  typified  the  desert,  fair  to 
those  who  found  her  fair,  strange  to  those  who  found 
her  strange.  Her  beauty  was  a  reflection  like  that  of 
the  little  indigo  chameleon  which  played  over  her 
white  fingers  that  day  in  the  shadow  of  the  rock. 
Then  her  eyes,  too,  had  been  deep  blue.  He  looked 
down  into  them  now,  and  saw  them  shadowed,  of  no 
distinct  colour,  and  full  of  mystery.  The  sands  were 
bright,  and  her  hair  was  gold  in  the  afterglow.  Did 
he  not  know  that  in  reality  those  sparkling  sands  were 
dull  and  lifeless ;  that  the  soft  masses  of  her  hair  were 
neither  brown  nor  yellow,  but  a  monotonous  ash-tint? 
She  cast  a  spell  upon  him  as  the  desert  had,  and  forced 
him  to  admit  the  strange  beauty  of  them  both.  A 
fever  seized  his  blood.  To  Adele  he  had  been  all 
tender  chivalry,  but  now  he  reached  out  and  took  hold 
of  the  hand  of  the  girl  beside  him  as  if  he  would  draw 
her  nearer. 

She  struggled  to  withdraw  her  hand  from  his,  and 

he  saw  that  she  was  frightened.      He    released    her 

gently.     He  did  not  know  himself.     She  let  her  hand 

rest  where  he  had  dropped  it  between  them,  and  he 

[141] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

was  touched.  It  was  almost  acquiescent  of  her,  as  if 
she  were  willing  he  should  take  it  again.  But  he 
knew  it  was  only  indicative  of  that  extreme  gentle- 
ness which  he  had  observed  in  her  from  the  first.  He 
had  thought  then  she  showed  it  only  to  Lispenard,  but 
now  he  too  felt  it.  His  heart  throbbed  heavily. 

"  You  are  a  strange  woman,"  he  said.  "  Why  did 
you  come  out  here  at  this  hour  ?  " 

"  If  I  told  you  you  would  not  believe  me,"  she  said. 
"  Once  I  told  you  I  had  seen  Tiggy's  wolf,  and  you 
laughed  at  me." 

He  smiled  now.  She  was  very  clever  to  turn  his 
question  off  by  such  a  reference.  Her  air  of  youth- 
fulness  disarmed  him,  and  he  was  ashamed  of  his 
cynicism.  She  was  quite  composed  again,  and  he 
wondered  if  it  were  the  quick  trustfulness  of  youth 
which  had  put  her  at  her  ease  so  soon,  or  that  deep 
maturity  which  told  her  that  she  was  mistress  of  the 
situation. 

But  he  was  wearied  guessing  the  way  of  women ;  he 
was  tired  and  depressed,  and  he  looked  away  from  her 
to  the  shadows  which  made  the  mountain  look  like  a 
mighty  organ.  He  wished,  fancifully,  that  a  wind 
might  arise  and  fill  those  imaginary  pipes  with  music 
in  harmony  with  his  mood,  wild  and  fierce  and  lonety. 
He  could  have  laughed  with  scorn  to  think  Lispenard 
had  said  the  desert  breathed  peace.  With  all  its  evan- 
escent beauty  of  sunset  it  had  never  seemed  as  hateful 
[142] 


CHAPTER    TEN 

to  him  as  now.  His  dark  head  sprinkled  with  grey  was 
massive  in  that  fairy  light ;  his  mouth  was  set  and  his 
eyes  were  gloomy.  His  feverish  unhappiness  over 
Adele's  desertion  and  Lispenard's  coldness  made  him 
reckless.  He  looked  at  his  companion  and  thought 
that  she  was  not  all  remote  and  classical,  but  had  great 
sweetness  as  a  woman.  He  wished  he  had  a  wife,  young 
and  fair  and  honest.  His  hand  dropped  to  hers  and 
closed  over  it  tightly  one  brief  moment,  then  he  re- 
leased it.  Her  colour  rose  bright. 

"  Shall  I  tell  you  what  I  have  been  watching  all  the 
time  we  have  been  sitting  here? "  she  asked  him. 
"  Quick,  over  there,  look !  There,  now  you  see 
him." 

Had  it  not  moved  he  could  not  have  distinguished 
that  shaggy  grey  form  which  slipped  along  those  shin- 
ing sands,  following  the  trail  that  led  to  the  moun- 
tains. 

She  gave  vent  to  a  little  sigh  after  the  moment's  ex- 
citement of  making  him  see  it.  "  It  is  Tiggy's 
wolf,"  she  said. 

He  saw  that  the  animal  trotted  unevenly,  lunging 
forward,  and  he  recalled  her  statement  that  one  of  its 
fore-paws  was  gone. 

"  I  promised  Tiggy  I  would  bring  food  out  to  it 
while  he  was  away,"  she  told  him,  "  but  he  wished  me 
to  keep  it  a  secret." 

"  I  will  not  mention  it,"  he  said. 
[143] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

"  I  miss  the  children,"  she  continued,  "  and  I  know 
they  will  be  homesick." 

"  And  do  you  not  miss  Mrs.  Lispenard?  "  he  asked, 
angry  with  her  as  he  had  been  that  day  on  the  moun- 
tain when  neither  she  nor  Lispenard  had  mentioned 
Adele's  name  nor  been  regretful  of  her  absence. 

Miss  Armes  did  not  look  at  him,  but  her  manner  told 
him  he  had  at  last  gone  too  far.  She  gathered  up  her 
soft,  pale  shawl  and  rose.  He  walked  along  in  silence 
at  her  side.  The  desolation  of  the  desert  through  that 
sunset  veil  of  beauty  was  forced  upon  his  soul.  And 
that  pale  averted  profile  in  all  its  perfection — that,  too, 
seemed  desolate.  He  thought  of  Adele  so  far  away,  of 
his  life  in  the  East,  and  these  realities  of  his  existence 
seemed  to  become  unsubstantial.  The  cold  profile  at 
his  side  angered  him.  He  remembered  that  look  in 
Lispenard's  eyes — that  look  of  a  man  inviolably 
wedded  to  a  secret  passion.  What  right  had  she  to  be 
scornful  of  him  ? 

He  put  his  hand  on  her  shoulder  and  made  her  face 
him.  "  You  shall  not  turn  away  from  me,  too,"  he 
cried  in  a  voice  he  did  not  recognise  as  his  own.  "  Lis- 
penard shall  not  have  everything !  " 

She  slipped  from  his  grasp  and  ran,  wild  and  deli- 
cate in  'that  strange  atmosphere,  her  pale  pink  shawl 
falling  from  her  and  lying  on  the  yellow  sands.  He 
stood  still,  watching  her  fleeing  figure.  No  longer 
did  he  wish  to  follow  her.  And  Adele's  words  kept 
[144] 


CHAPTER    TEN 

saying  themselves  over  and  over.  "  Oh,  you  will 
think  her  beautiful  if  you  stay  long  enough, 
Jarvey." 

He  picked  up  the  shawl  and  went  back  to  the  rock. 
He  thought  of  Adele's  little  child  bringing  out  supper 
to  the  wolf  at  night,  of  his  strange  double  separation 
from  Adele,  for  she  was  no  longer  with  her  husband 
and  in  honour  he  could  not  see  her.  He  realised  afresh 
the  strange  fever  that  was  coursing  in  his  blood;  a 
pale  pink  shawl  lay  across  his  knee;  the  fountains 
were  stirred  within  him,  and  he  found  himself,  a  man 
past  thirty-five,  alone  in  a  desert,  his  eyes  full  of 
tears. 

When  it  was  long  past  darkness  he  went  home.  As 
he  drew  near  the  plaza  he  remembered  the  vase  he  had 
bought,  and  looked  for  it  back  of  the  bunch  of  sage 
near  the  railroad  track.  It  was  gone,  and  his  fingers 
struck  instead  a  hard  object  wrapped  in  a  bit  of  paper. 
It  was  the  dollar  he  had  paid  the  old  squaw.  He  was 
amazed.  Had  she  resented  his  careless  fashion  of  leav- 
ing his  purchase?  Was  it  possible  she  valued  her  work 
for  its  own  sake  ?  But  why  should  not  the  fingers  that 
fashioned  it  love  it?  He  recalled  the  exquisite  shape  of 
the  vase,  that  shape  which  had  imprisoned  the  form  of 
beauty  since  Eve  was  born.  He  laughed  bitterly.  His 
dreams  were  over.  Adele  had  chosen  another ;  he  could 
still  see  that  other  figure  fleeing  from  him,  wild  and 
delicate  in  a  strange  atmosphere,  her  pale  pink  shawl 
[145] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

slipping  from  her  and  lying  on  the  yellow  sands ;  and 
an  old  withered  crone  had  taken  back  the  vase  of  im- 
mortal shape.  He  flung  the  money  scornfully  away, 
and  the  breeze  blew  the  paper  in  which  it  had  been 
wrapped  back  against  him. 


[146] 


CHAPTER  XI 

E5PENARD  was  obliged  to  wait  until  Cozzens 
should  return  from  the  Capital,  where  he  had 
gone  on  business,  before  he  could  repay  the  sum 
his  wife  had  borrowed.  Meanwhile  the  embarrassment 
between  the  two  men  decreased,  and  he  had  Trent  up  to 
supper.  He  made  the  tea  and  put  a  variety  of  canned 
goods  on  the  table. 

"  This  is  the  tin-can  country,  you  know,"  he  said ; 
"  I  don't  want  you  to  forget  that.  I  have  sometimes 
thought  that  fences  of  tin  cans  would  be  appropriate 
to  mark  the  border-line  of  the  frontier." 

He  made  no  mention  of  his  wife  and  children,  and 
his  guest  wondered  if  he  had  yet  heard  from  them. 
One  thing  was  apparent  to  him,  and  that  was  Lispen- 
ard's  real  serenity.  It  was  unforced.  He  could  be 
reserved  in  regard  to  his  wife's  departure,  but  he  could 
not  hide  from  his  friend  that  he  was  content;  and  it 
seemed  to  poor  Trent,  who  would  have  valued  her  so, 
that  Adele's  sweetness  had  been  wasted  on  this  man. 

Thoughts  of  a  divorce  crossed  his  mind,  and  he  had 
a  moment  of  dizziness  at  a  final  possibility  of  giving  to 
her  what  she  had  missed  of  life.  Lispenard  turned  the 
leaf  of  the  book  he  was  reading  aloud  after  their  sup- 
per, glancing  up  with  some  relative  remark  as  he  did 
so.  And  Trent,  as  he  looked  at  that  face,  fine  and 
[147] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

scholarly,  bespeaking  such  mental  vigour,  such  phys- 
ical delicacy,  realised,  almost  with  a  sense  of  hopeless- 
ness, that  he,  Adele,  Miss  Armes,  and  Cozzens  would 
all  conspire  to  protect  Lispenard  against  any  mistake 
he  might  make. 

They  went  down  later  for  the  mail.  There  were 
some  business  letters  for  Trent  and  one  letter  for  Lis- 
penard. He  opened  it  eagerly,  and  his  face  paled  as 
he  glanced  down  the  typewritten  lines. 

"  Shall  we  go?  "  he  asked.  They  had  gone  a  square 
before  he  spoke  again.  "  Do  you  remember  how  am- 
bitious I  was?  I  think  I'm  side-tracked.  I  thought  I 
should  be  a  bishop  by  this  time,  but  the  house  of 
bishops  would  like  to  turn  me  out  of  the  church  as  an 
heretic." 

"  Did  you  have  bad  news?  "  Trent  asked,  confident 
now  that  the  letter  could  not  have  come  from  Adele. 
He  drew  a  deep  breath  of  relief.  He  would  be  anxious 
until  he  heard  she  had  reached  her  destination. 

"  Yes,"  said  his  companion  briefly,  "  the  publishers 
have  refused  my  book.  They  are  sending  it  back  to 
me." 

The  street-lamp  showed  them  Miss  Armes  walking 
ahead  alone. 

"  What  a  solitary  woman  she  is,"  said  Trent ;  "  I  do 

not  understand  her."     His  tone  was  indifferent.     He 

had  schooled  himself  to  sternness,  and  the  passion  and 

fever  of  the  night  before  seemed  like  a  dream.  He  had 

[148] 


CHAPTER     ELEVEN 

returned  her  shawl  that  morning,  but  had  not  asked 
to  see  her  when  he  called. 

"  Solitary  ?  "  Lispenard  repeated ;  "  I  should  not 
call  her  that.  She  is  very  happy.  I  have  sometimes 
thought,  though,  that  happiness  sets  us  a  little  aloof 
from  our  fellows.  After  childhood  is  done  any  real 
happiness  is  so  rare  that  we  are  apt  to  hug  it  to  our 
hearts  like  a  precious  secret,  fearing  either  the  world's 
enmity  or  else  its  condemnation  of  us  as  foolish.  But 
we  are  eager  to  share  our  sorrows.  For  instance,  I 
could  scarcely  wait  to  get  out  of  the  post-office  in  my 
anxiety  to  tell  you  my  manuscript  was  rejected." 

"  And  do  you  mean  to  imply  that  you  wouldn't  have 
told  me  had  it  been  accepted,"  his  friend  retorted. 
"  No,  Theodore,  you  cannot  make  me  believe  you  are 
cynical.  You  would  have  been  setting  up  the  cigars 
if  you'd  had  good  luck." 

"  I  was  only  talking,"  Lispenard  answered,  with  his 
charming  smile,  as  they  crossed  the  street  where  the 
lamp-post  was.  "  Like  all  people  who  talk  much,  I  must 
say  foolish  things  and  often  contradict  myself.  Your 
words  always  had  more  weight  than  mine  because  you 
talked  less.  The  current  of  your  mind  is  too  strong  to 
let  you  drift  in  and  out  along  the  shore  as  I  do.  Miss 
Armes,  it  isn't  gracious  of  you  to  quicken  your  steps 
when  you  hear  us  coming  behind  you.  If  you  try  to 
avoid  your  spiritual  adviser  it  indicates  that  you  have 
a  guilty  conscience." 

[149] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

They  were  quite  a  way  beyond  the  lamp-post  now, 
and  her  face  was  barely  distinguishable  as  she  turned, 
and  Trent  felt  rather  than  caught  the  glance  of  her 
eyes.  It  was  one  of  shyness,  not  of  displeasure,  and, 
in  spite  of  his  stern  resolves,  his  heart  bounded. 

"  I  forget  you  are  a  pastor  half  the  time  since  you 
don't  wear  the  dress  ordinarily,  Theodore,"  he  said, 
laughing. 

Miss  Armes  walked  on  the  other  side  of  Lispenard, 
a  little  in  front  of  him,  a  slender  figure,  dim  in  the 
shadow  of  the  magnolia  and  pepper  trees  bordering 
the  adobe  wall  of  her  garden.  But  Trent  caught  the 
poise  of  her  head  carried  slightly  forward  on  her  deli- 
cate throat  and  turned  toward  him;  he  even  distin- 
guished the  hand  which  gathered  and  lifted  her  skirt 
at  the  side ;  and  he  caught  a  scent  of  roses. 

"  I  won't  wear  the  cloth  and  be  tagged  as  the  pro- 
fessional good  man  among  my  fellows,"  Lispenard 
answered,  but  his  friend  scarcely  heard  his  words. 

They  had  only  a  little  way  to  go  together,  half  the 
length  of  her  grounds.  A  light  shone  out  from  the 
rose-arbour  as  they  drew  near  the  gate. 

"  How  mysterious !  "  she  said,  quickening  her  steps. 

The  old  Senora  Teresa  was  hunting  for  something 
with  a  candle. 

"  What  is  it,  Teresa,"  asked  her  mistress,  "  what 
have  you  lost?  " 

There  was  no  answer,  nor  did  she  look  up. 
[150] 


CHAPTER     ELEVEN 

"  She  does  not  hear  us,"  said  Miss  Armes ;  "  she  is 
getting  very  deaf." 

They  lingered,  held  by  the  picture  Teresa  made, 
her  grotesque  shadow  moving  up  and  down  on  the 
rose  vines,  her  wrinkled  brown  face  distinct  in  the 
closely  held  candle. 

"  You  may  depend  upon  it,  it's  money  she's  lost," 
Trent  remarked  in  a  lowered  tone,  "  or  she  wouldn't 
have  that  look  of  avidity." 

"  Old  women  give  me  much  more  of  a  sensation  than 
old  men  do,"  said  Lispenard.  "  Who  was  ever  scared 
at  the  thought  of  a  wizard?  You  can't  even  get  up 
enough  interest  in  one  to  imagine  him  riding  a  broom- 
stick. But  you  can  picture  your  hag  flying  along  the 
clouds  on  an  evil  night.  There,  she's  found  it.  No, 
she  hasn't,  either.  It  was  something  she  mistook  for 
whatever  she's  lost." 

Miss  Armes  stood  slightly  nearer  the  gate  than  the 
two  men,  and  her  face  was  distinct  to  Trent.  He  felt 
the  fascination  of  last  night  creeping  over  him  again. 
Had  she,  indeed,  fled  from  him,  and  now  stood  so  close 
that  he  could  touch  her  by  putting  out  his  hand  ?  As 
if  she  divined  his  thought,  she  lifted  her  eyes  and  gave 
him  a  look  cold  and  implacable. 

"  There,  she's  found  it,"  said  Lispenard.  "  I'm  so 
relieved!  I  was  afraid  she  wouldn't." 

They  watched  her  straighten  her  back  slowly  and 
blow  out  the  candle.  She  did  not  see  her  mistress,  who 
[151] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

stepped  back  as  she  came  out  of  the  gate,  but  she 
nearly  ran  into  the  two  men,  and  crossing  herself  and 
mumbling,  hurried  on. 

"  I  don't  suppose  she  really  saw  you  then,  she  was 
so  absorbed,"  Miss  Armes  said,  looking  after  her, 
"  but  instinct  made  her  cross  herself.  If  she  hadn't 
been  with  me  so  long  I  wouldn't  keep  her,  she  is  so 
hard  to  manage,  yet  only  a  few  years  ago  she  was 
very  companionable,  and  used  to  sit  in  the  court  with 
me  afternoons  and  embroider  and  tell  me  of  the  times 
when  she  was  young.  Now  she  likes  to  stay  alone  in 
her  own  room." 

"  I  remember  how  interesting  she  could  be,  poor 
soul,"  said  Lispenard.  "  I  could  enjoy  her  now,  if  I 
didn't  get  so  exhausted  shouting  at  her  when  we 
talk." 

"  It  isn't  old  age,"  she  continued,  "  it's  because 
she's  grown  miserly,  and  I  fancy  she  buries  her  money 
in  Santa  Ines.  It  is  terrible,  I  know,  but  I  quite  an- 
ticipate telling  Jim,  when  the  poor  soul  is  gathered  to 
her  fathers,  that  there  is  hidden  treasure  in  Santa 
Ines.  Won't  he  have  excitement  trying  to  find  it !  " 

They  lingered  but  a  moment  or  two  longer,  for  all 
three  had  been  made  self-conscious  and  constrained 
by  Adele's  flight,  and  then  she  said  good-night  and 
went  in. 

The  two  men  walked  silently  across  the  street,  and 
then  turned  down  towards  Lispenard's  home. 
[152] 


CHAPTER     ELEVEN 

"  Do  you  think  I've  side-tracked  myself,  old  fel- 
low? "  he  asked  again.  His  tone  was  pitiful.  It  was 
the  voice  of  one  who  could  not  endure  the  doubt  his 
question  implied. 

"  No,"  said  Trent.  His  pulses  beat  triumphantly. 
She  could  give  him  that  cold,  implacable  look  if  she  so 
wished,  but  he  had  seen  her  shyness  and  softness  when 
she  fancied  the  deep  shadow  of  the  trees  veiled  her 
from  his  observation.  He  drew  himself  together.  Was 
the  experience  of  last  night  to  be  repeated?  And 
how  was  he  answering  his  friend ?  "I  beg  your 
pardon,  Theodore,  I  was  thinking  of  something  else. 
You're  right.  You  are  side-tracked  here.  Why  don't 
you  leave  it  all?  Adele  would  be  happier." 

It  was  the  first  time  her  name  had  been  mentioned 
between  them,  but  now  it  was  done  so  naturally  and 
simply  as  to  engender  no  embarrassment.  It  stilled 
Trent's  pulses ;  it  steadied  him.  The  one  moment  of 
disillusion  when  she  spoke  of  having  marred  his  life, 
and  he,  in  his  own  conceit,  had  condemned  her  vanity, 
was  past,  absorbed  in  his  loyal  affection  for  her.  How- 
ever another  woman  might  fascinate  him,  it  was  she 
whom  he  loved,  Adele,  the  little  girl  he  had  known  in 
his  boyhood ;  the  girl  who  had  given  him  the  purest 
happiness  of  his  life,  brief  though  that  happiness 
was;  the  woman  who  had  sweetened  his  faith  in  hu- 
manity by  being  an  ideal  wife  and  mother.  His  irri- 
tation with  her  was  gone,  and  he  saw  that  her  folly  in 
[153] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

running  away  from  her  husband  was  due  to  excess  of 
love  in  which  the  mother  triumphed  over  the  wife. 

"  Adele  would  be  happier,"  he  repeated. 

Lispenard  shivered  as  if  struck  with  sudden  cold, 
and  made  no  reply.  He  would  not  leave  the  desert. 
Trent  knew  that.  But  it  was  not  that  alone  which 
held  him. 

"  Theodore,  it  was  never  our  habit  to  say  much  to 
each  other,  but  this  time  I'm  going  to.  You're  right. 
You're  side-tracked  out  here.  It's  time  for  you  to 
break  away.  I  know  you  love  the  life,  but  it's  time  for 
you  to  go.  I  don't  care  what  passion  a  man  cherishes. 
If  it  interferes  with  his  career,  if  it  checks  his 
ambition,  it  becomes  the  canker  which  ruins  his 
life." 

"  I  wonder  why  you  never  married,"  said  Lispen- 
ard. "  You  would  have  been  happy  with  an  intel- 
lectual woman.  She  would  have  understood  your  am- 
bition." 

"  I  abhor  an  intellectual  woman,"  he  retorted. 

Lispenard  frowned  wearily.  "  Why  make  a  ques- 
tion of  sex  ?  It  is  stupid  of  you."  They  had  reached 
his  door,  and  he  unlocked  it,  hesitating  a  moment  be- 
fore entering.  "  How  dark  it  looks !  " 

Trent  insisted  upon  hearing  some  of  his  friend's 

writings,  and  Lispenard  recovered  his  spirits  in  the 

warmth  of  the  other's  interest,  which  threw  him  into 

his  most  delightful  mood.     The  ideals  of  their  youth 

[154] 


CHAPTER     ELEVEN 

flowered  again  out  of  those  closely  written  pages. 
He  became  touchingly  happy. 

"  You've  no  idea,  Jarvey,  how  I've  longed  for  a 
man's  judgment.  A  woman's  may  be  full  as  intel- 
lectual, but  she  is  apt  to  be  biassed  by  her  liking,  I 
think.  Don't  you  know  I  was  never  very  fond  of 
women's  society  as  such,  and  since  I've  been  in  the 
ministry  I've  been  suffocated  by  a  lot  of  petticoats." 

He  would  not  let  his  friend  return  to  the  plaza  that 
night,  but  kept  him  with  him.  "  You  can  have  the 
boys'  room,  and  I  will  have  breakfast  whenever  you 
like.  It  will  be  like  our  college  days." 

Trent  saw  that  he  did  not  wish  to  be  alone.  The 
man  was  sensitive,  very  delicate,  and  more  dependent 
upon  love  than  he  knew.  Like  most  people  of  great 
charm  of  personality  he  did  not  realise  what  he  re- 
ceived. 


[155] 


CHAPTER  XII 

A  •'TEH  breakfast  the  next  morning  Trent  went 
back  to  the  depot  to  write  some  letters,  and  his 
host  accompanied  him  part  of  the  way  to  the 
plaza.  At  the  bank  building  he  left  him.  The  open 
windows  above  showed  him  that  Cozzens  had  returned. 
He  found  him  at  his  desk  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  a  big 
black  cigar  in  his  mouth,  and  his  hat  on  the  back  of 
his  head.  He  was  dictating  a  letter  to  his  stenog- 
rapher. 

"  Any  hurry  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  None  at  all,"  Lispenard  answered,  as  he  seated 
himself  at  the  window.  The  little  town  was  charm- 
ing, so  bright-hued,  so  gay.  Never  had  it  seemed 
more  attractive  nor  his  own  mood  one  of  greater  tran- 
quillity. Trent's  sympathy  and  admiration  for  his 
book  had  been  encouraging,  and  he  was  able  to  accept 
cheerfully  the  fact  that  he  must  send  it  out  again. 
His  only  impatience  was  due  to  the  time  it  took  to 
send  a  manuscript  back  and  forth  across  the  continent. 
Life  seemed  so  full  of  interest  and  incident  that  he  was 
indifferent  to  his  wife's  absence.  With  a  woman's 
greater  power  of  agonising  over  small  things,  she  had 
probably  felt  the  spiritual  need  of  separation  from 
him  for  a  time.  He  did  not  take  seriously  her  state- 
[156] 


CHAPTER    TWELVE 

ment  that  she  was  going  for  the  sake  of  the  two  boys. 
Pie  thought  it  was  because  he  had  become  oppressive 
to  her,  and  he  accepted  this  belief  impersonally  and 
was  not  wounded.  It  was  not  in  her  nature  to  com- 
bat him,  and  so  she  had  fled ;  that  was  the  only  refuge 
her  nature  offered.  His  keenest  emotion  had  been  his 
mortification  when  he  discovered  she  had  asked  his 
friend  for  the  money  to  go.  The  interest  excited  by 
her  sudden  departure  had  already  died  away.  Sa- 
huaro  accepted  easily  his  statement  that  she  had  gone 
East  on  a  visit  to  her  brother,  and  had  some  thought  of 
putting  the  boys  in  school.  It  was  a  proverb  in  West- 
ern life  that  men  could  live  down  homesickness, but  that 
women  never  could,  and  must  be  allowed  to  go  back 
East  occasionally  if  it  could  be  afforded.  Mrs.  Lispen- 
ard  was  a  brave  woman  to  have  remained  as  long  as  she 
had.  The  Woman's  Auxiliary  of  her  husband's 
church  was  a  little  offended  that  she  had  not  allowed  a 
farewell  party  in  her  honour,  and  curious  as  to  where 
the  money  had  come  from,  but  had  finally  settled  down 
to  the  opinion  that  her  brother  must  have  sent  it. 
And  as  regarded  her  going  so  suddenly,  had  she  not 
told  Haydon  that  if  she  had  allowed  herself  to  say 
good-bye  to  anyone  her  courage  would  have  failed  her, 
and  she  never  could  have  started?  They  gathered,  too, 
that  it  was  for  this  reason  she  had  not  wished  her 
husband  to  see  her  off  on  the  train.  He  was  relieved 
to  think  there  had  been  no  gossip,  and  now  he  dis- 
[157] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

missed  the  subject  from  his  mind  with  a  sigh  of  relief, 
and  took  up  the  small  morning  paper. 

Cozzens  finished  the  letter  he  was  dictating. 

"  Vamose,  you,"  he  told  the  stenographer,  and  the 
young  man  hurried  into  the  outside  office,  and  closed 
the  door  between. 

Cozzens  listened  to  what  Lispenard  told  him,  his 
eyes  narrowing  like  a  cat's,  his  left  hand  jingling 
nervously  the  loose  coin  in  his  trousers  pocket.  When 
he  finished  he  brought  his  fist  down  heavily  on  the 
desk. 

"  So  your  wife's  left  you,"  he  said. 

"  Temporarily,  temporarily,"  Lispenard  modified, 
amused  at  his  own  words,  which  echoed  in  his  ears  like 
"  gently,  gently  "  on  a  Sunday-school  card. 

"  The  damned  scoundrel !  "  cried  Cozzens. 

"  My  dear  fellow,  don't  blame  Trent.  I  know  per- 
fectly well  that  Mrs.  Lispenard  talked  him  into  doing 
as  she  said.  Why,  he  was  once  in  love  with  her.  Make 
some  allowance  for  the  tender  passion,  and  that  the 
memory  of  it  might  engender  some  feeling  of  gal- 
lantry. He  and  you  are  my  best  friends,  but  I've  no 
wish  to  be  indebted  to  him  for  money  loaned  my  wife, 
and  so  I've  come  to  see  if  you  can  help  me  out.  I  want 
you  to  take  that  paid-up  insurance  of  mine.  The 
policy  is  good  for  seven  hundred  dollars.  I'll  make  it 
over  to  you  for  five  hundred  dollars  in  cash.  It  will 
be  security  if  I  shouldn't  be  able  to  pay  you  back,  and 
[158] 


CHAPTER    TWELVE 

the  two  hundred  dollars  would  be  the  interest."  He 
leant  forward  in  his  chair,  and  put  his  hand  on  his 
friend's  big  shoulder.  "  Joking  aside,  you'll  do  me 
this  favour,  won't  you?  I  shan't  know  where  to  turn 
if  you  don't.  And  I  wouldn't  ask  Mrs.  Lispenard's 
brother  for  a  cent,  the  confounded  saving  prig !  " 

Cozzens  dipped  his  pen  in  the  ink-well,  and  wrote 
out  a  cheque  on  orange-coloured  paper  and  laid  it  one 
side  to  dry. 

Lispenard  drew  the  policy  from  his  shabby  grey 
coat  and  made  it  over  to  Cozzens.  "  We  shall  have  to 
have  witnesses,"  he  insisted,  smiling.  "  I've  always 
been  longing  to  convince  you  that  a  clergyman  can 
have  a  sense  of  business." 

Cozzens  called  in  his  stenographer,  and  when  the 
young  fellow  had  signed  and  gone  out  again,  he  said, 
"  This  leaves  your  wife  without  anything  in  case  you 
die." 

"  How  sharp  are  the  wounds  of  a  friend,"  his  com- 
panion retorted ;  "  you  forget  I  may  have  a  whole  sil- 
ver mine  in  my  book." 

Cozzens  put  on  his  coat  and  settled  his  hat  square 
on  his  head.  Then  he  picked  up  the  cheque.  "  You 
stay  here,"  he  said  briefly.  "  I'll  just  take  this  here  to 
him.  Don't  worry.  I'll  get  his  receipt  in  full  or  know 
the  reason  why." 

"  Good  Heavens !  "  cried  Lispenard,  springing  to 
his  feet.  "  Come  back  here.  You  can't  insult  my 
[159] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

friend.  Why,  he's  just  passed  the  night  with  me. 
Give  me  that  cheque.  I'll  take  it  over  myself." 

The  big  fellow  demurred,  but  it  ended  in  Lispenard 
having  his  way. 

"  However  you  put  it,"  Cozzens  insisted  obsti- 
nately, "  it  looks  just  one  way  to  me,  and  that's  dirty. 
I  call  it  a  regular  Greaser  trick  for  a  man  to  give  a 
woman  money  to  run  away  from  her  husband  and  chil- 
dren." 

"  She  took  them  with  her,"  Lispenard  explained. 

"  Hey  !  "  he  cried,  his  eyes  bulging. 

"  She  has  some  idea  of  putting  them  in  school  near 
their  uncle,"  the  other  continued. 

"  I  guess  she  aint  calculating  much  on  the  educa- 
tion you  and  I  had  laid  out  to  give  them,"  Cozzens 
said  huskily,  with  a  faint  smile ;  his  fierceness  was  gone. 

"  I  think  not,"  his  friend  answered,  amused  to  think 
how  little  his  wife  respected  his  intellectual  judgment 
in  regard  to  their  sons.  He  took  up  the  slip  of  glossy 
orange  paper  bearing  the  sprawling  signature  of  the 
great  mine  owner,  and  went  away. 

Cozzens  squared  his  chair  around  and  watched 
through  the  window  for  Lispenard  to  emerge  from  the 
stairway  below.  His  eyes  followed  that  almost  boyish 
figure  until  it  disappeared  in  the  green  of  the  plaza. 
He  reached  back  in  his  hip-pocket  and  drew  out  a 
whiskey-flask.  His  full,  hard  eyes  were  misty. 

"  I'd  even  taught  Jim  to  take  a  nippy  now  and 
[160] 


CHAPTER    TWELVE 

then,"  he  muttered.  "  Let  a  boy  know  the  taste  when 
he's  young  and  he'll  never  go  crazy  for  it  when  he 
grows  up."  He  put  the  flask  to  his  lips  and  then 
turned  back  to  his  work.  Now  and  then  a  heavy  sigh 
shook  his  powerful  shoulders  as  he  went  over  his  ac- 
counts. On  the  desk  was  a  piece  of  gold  quartz  he  had 
brought  home  for  Jim  and  an  Indian  toy  for  Tiggy. 

Trent  had  finished  his  letters,  and  was  sitting 
leisurely  on  the  balcony,  looking  out  over  the  desert, 
which  like  the  sea  was  forever  changing.  He  was  em- 
barrassed when  his  friend  brought  up  the  cheque. 

"  Another  time  would  have  been  just  as  convenient 
to  me." 

"  That's  all  right,"  answered  Lispenard ;  "  don't 
speak  of  it.  I  appreciate  your  goodness  in  giving  it 
to  Adele.  Women  are  more  innocent  even  than  minis- 
ters when  it  comes  to  the  propriety  of  money  matters. 
The  air  is  full  of  dust  to-day.  We  ought  to  have  a 
magnificent  sunset.  I  am  apt  to  forget  the  time  in 
between.  It  often  seems  all  dawn  and  evening  to  me 
here." 

Trent  smiled  in  sympathy  as  he  opened  his  leather 
pocket  case  to  lay  the  cheque  within.  As  he  did  so  he 
noticed  the  signature,  and  was  wounded  beyond  meas- 
ure, as  he  was  not  even  when  his  friend  had  refused  to 
see  his  extended  hand  the  night  his  wife  went  away. 
That  was  due  to  the  strain  and  humiliation  of  her  un- 
explained departure,  but  this  was  deliberate.  Lispen- 
[161] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

ard  preferred  to  be  indebted  to  Cozzens  rather  than 
to  himself.  This  incident  took  all  pleasure  from  his 
day.  He  had  planned  to  spend  one  more  evening  in 
Sahuaro.  Now,  he  decided  to  go  that  night  and  not 
wait  for  the  morning  train. 

Lispenard  felt  the  change  in  him,  and  was  at  a  loss 
to  account  for  it.  The  need  of  explaining  Cozzens's 
signature  to  the  cheque  never  crossed  his  mind.  The 
quicker  he  was  done  with  any  money  matter,  the  better 
he  was  pleased.  He  saw  that  his  friend's  eyes  had 
grown  cold  and  his  manner  haughty,  and  ransacked 
his  memory  as  to  any  probable  cause.  Finally  he  at- 
tributed it  to  sheer  moodiness,  and  remembered  that 
there  had  always  been  a  dour  streak  in  Trent's 
make-up.  He  tried  in  vain  to  persuade  him  to  remain 
a  few  days  longer,  and,  when  he  could  not,  gave  up 
further  urging  with  entire  sweetness  and  made  up 
his  mind  to  enjoy  that  last  day  to  the  full.  He  re- 
mained to  lunch  with  him  and  stayed  in  his  room  while 
he  packed.  At  four  o'clock  he  proposed  that  Trent 
should  call  on  Miss  Armes  and  bid  her  farewell. 

He  complied  without  the  least  emotion.  His  only 
feeling  was  one  of  weariness  and  anxiety  to  leave 
Sahuaro  as  soon  as  he  could.  Lispenard's  action  in 
regard  to  the  money  was  fatal  to  their  friendship. 
He  felt  that  he  could  never  get  over  it.  He  would  not 
have  believed  before  this  incident  occurred  that  Lispen- 
ard could  be  so  little  sensitive  to  his  friend's  feelings. 
[162] 


CHAPTER    TWELVE 

The  desert  had  estranged  him  indeed,  and  he  under- 
stood as  he  had  not  before  why  Adele  had  gone  away. 

They  found  Miss  Armes  at  home.  The  front  door 
was  open,  and  they  heard  her  playing  Handel's  Largo 
at  the  piano  in  the  parlour.  She  turned  her  head 
over  her  shoulder,  her  fingers  on  the  keys.  Then  she 
rose  and  went  to  meet  them.  "  I  thought  I  heard 
someone." 

"  Don't  stop,"  said  Trent ;  "  I  wish  you  would  play 
again  for  me." 

He  remembered  afterward  that  it  was  the  first  re- 
quest he  made  of  her,  and  that  she  had  acceded  to  it. 

Lispenard,  who  cared  nothing  for  music,  wandered 
about  the  room,  and  finally  found  a  book  that  he  liked 
and  sat  down  at  the  window. 

The  music  sublimated  Trent's  melancholy  mood; 
the  soft  notes  fell  gently  on  his  bruised  spirit.  His 
feeling  toward  Lispenard  did  not  alter,  nor  was  he  less 
sad,  but  his  weariness  passed  and  left  him  serene.  He 
was  not  surprised  by  the  girl's  exquisite  touch,  but  con- 
scious only  that  she  played  on  as  though  her  mood 
that  afternoon  were  all  music.  He  had  never  been  in 
this  particular  room  before.  The  curtains  were  drawn 
against  the  blazing  sunshine,  save  where  Lispenard 
had  seated  himself,  and  there  a  dusty  golden  beam 
slipped  in  across  his  white  hands  and  the  book  he  held 
and  lost  itself  in  a  revelation  of  the  subdued  colours  in 
the  rug  on  the  floor.  The  bowl  of  roses  on  the  piano 
[163] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

made  the  air  fragrant,  and  Trent  observed  that  they 
were  placed  just  below  the  portrait  of  Major  Armes 
which  hung  on  the  wall  above  the  piano.  The  person- 
ality of  the  portrait  dominated  the  room.  The  fierce 
eyes  met  his  own ;  the  uniform  was  worn  with  con- 
scious pride ;  the  set  of  the  grey  head  was  indescrib- 
ably haughty.  "  A  spirit  armed  and  victorious !  " 
What  a  genius  Lispenard  possessed  in  his  ability  to 
says  always  the  appropriate  and  beautiful  thing !  It 
seemed  impossible  that  this  bronzed  old  war-eagle 
could  have  had  a  daughter  as  gentle,  as  white  as  the 
girl  who  sat  now  at  the  piano.  The  intellectuality  of 
her  perfect  profile  deprived  it  of  that  delicately  sen- 
suous beauty  which  was  Adele's.  His  warmth  of  feel- 
ing for  her  was  gone.  His  mood  of  triumph,  his  al- 
most boyish  desire  to  make  her  speak  to  him  when  he 
and  Lispenard  had  overtaken  her  on  their  way  home 
from  the  post-office,  now  seemed  foolish  to  him.  Her 
fingers  lingered  on  the  keys,  the  last  notes  died  away, 
and  she  turned  slowly  around. 

Lispenard  closed  his  book.  "  Oh,  music,"  he 
quoted,  "  '  thou  speakest  to  me  of  things  which  never 
were  and  never  shall  be.' ' 

"  What  a  fraud  you  are !  "  she  said ;  "  you  know  you 
don't  know  one  note  from  another." 

"  Leave  me  my  harmless  vanity,"  he  retorted ;  "  I 
wish  to  make  a  favourable  appearance  in  this  musical 
atmosphere.  If  I  cannot  hear  music  I  can  at  least 
[164] 


CHAPTER    TWELVE 

talk  it.  I  think  that  poetry  speaks  to  me  as  music 
does  to  both  of  you.  I  say  over  and  over  to  myself 
such  a  line  as  '  Bare  ruined  choirs  where  late  the  sweet 
bird  sang,'  with  an  emotion  very  different  from  any 
pleasure  in  the  meaning  of  the  words." 

Trent  rose.  "  I  came  to  say  good-bye,  Miss  Armes. 
I  am  leaving  on  this  evening's  train." 

"  I  can't  find  the  other  volume  of  this  book,"  said 
Lispenard,  who  was  searching  for  it  on  the  table,  and 
did  not  observe  that  his  friend  had  risen  to  go. 

"  It  is  in  the  library,"  she  answered. 

"  I  think  I'll  just  go  out  and  get  it,"  he  said. 
"  There's  never  any  time  like  the  present  for  reading 
a  good  book." 

Miss  Armes  and  Trent  were  left  alone. 

"  You  are  going  sooner  than  you  expected  to,  are 
you  not?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  had  to  make  the  wrench  some  time,"  he  said. 
"  Sahuaro  is  setting  a  spell  on  me.  I  am  sorry  to  go." 
He  regarded  her  with  his  infrequent  smile.  He  was 
grateful  for  her  music  and  her  magnanimity.  In 
the  presence  of  that  fierce  father  on  the  wall  whose 
bright,  splendid  eyes  met  his  from  out  the  painted 
canvas  as  though  they  were  living,  he  felt  that  his 
words  on  the  desert  to  her  the  other  evening  were  un- 
pardonable. 

"  Good-bye,"  he  said.  Her  hand  lay  lightly  in  his 
a  second,  then  his  own  fingers  closed  tightly  over  hers 
[165] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

and  there  was  a  moment  of  strangeness  in  which  the 
room  seemed  to  be  charged  with  an  emotion  he  could 
not  comprehend,  but  which  enveloped  them  both  like 
an  atmosphere.  Lispenard's  returning  steps  were 
heard  in  the  hall,  and  the  girl,  still  with  her  hand  in 
Trent's,  turned  her  face  toward  the  door  with  such  an 
expression  of  wistful  longing  that  he  never  forgot  it, 
for  it  showed  him  that  she  loved  his  friend.  Their 
hands  fell  apart.  He  had  a  moment  of  pain,  of  hun- 
ger for  that  hour  alone  in  the  desert  when  she  sat 
beside  him  and  his  hand  had  closed  over  her  unresisting 
one.  Oh,  could  he  but  hold  her  so  from  Lispenard! 
His  jealous  gaze  saw  her  colour  rise,  her  lashes  flutter 
as  his  friend  entered  the  room,  and  he  turned  from 
her  with  sudden  aversion.  She  was  a  sorceress  as  the 
desert  was  a  sorceress;  all  sweet  invitation,  all  with- 
drawal ;  a  mirage  that  beckoned  and  vanished ! 

"  I  found  it,"  said  Lispenard.  "  What,  going  so 
soon,  Trent?" 

"  It  is  nearly  five  o'clock,"  he  answered. 

Miss  Armes  went  with  them  to  the  door.  Trent  as 
he  closed  the  gate  looked  back  and  saw  her  the  length 
of  the  rose-arbour  from  him,  framed  in  the  quaint 
arch  of  the  adobe  portico. 

"  Good-bye,"  he  said  again,  raising  his  hat.     She 

neither  smiled  nor  bowed,  and  he  went  away  with  the 

feeling  that  her  grave  eyes  still  followed  him.     This 

final  reserve  showed  him  that  she  was  still  implacable. 

[166] 


CHAPTER    TWELVE 

Her  magnanimity  had  after  all  been  only  another 
expression  of  her  unfailing  courtesy.  He  was  glad  to 
get  away. 

He  and  Lispenard  had  supper  together  at  Campi's. 
Cozzcns  was  there  and  dined  alone.  When  he  went  out 
he  nodded  to  Lispenard  and  gave  Trent  a  stare  meant 
to  be  insolent.  Trent  could  have  killed  him,  but  he 
continued  his  conversation  as  though  the  incident  had 
not  occurred.  At  the  close  of  the  dinner  the  waiter 
brought  a  tray  on  which  were  two  cigars  and  tiny 
glasses  of  fiery  liqueur. 

"  With  the  compliments  of  Madame  Campi,"  he 
informed  them. 

Haydon  had  spread  the  news  of  his  guest's  depar- 
ture. 

Trent  was  touched  by  the  attention.  He  lighted 
his  cigar,  and  found  it  excellent.  It  was  Madame 
Campi's  best.  The  two  men  sat  nearly  half  an  hour 
smoking  and  talking  on  impersonal  matters,  as  if  their 
visit  were  before  them  and  not  nearly  past.  When 
they  finally  went  out  Trent  stopped  to  thank  Madame 
Campi.  He  rather  liked  the  hard-featured,  handsome 
woman,  with  her  showy  jewelry  and  unending  crochet- 
ing. She  gave  him  a  plump  hand  to  shake. 

"  So,  you  will  come  back  ?  "  she  said.  It  was  the 
longest  sentence  he  had  ever  heard  her  utter. 

The  sunset,  as  Lispenard  had  prophesied  from  the 
dust  in  the  air  that  morning,  was  beautiful.  They 
[167] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

watched  it  from  the  plaza.  The  frequenters  of  the 
depot  began  to  collect,  and  it  finally  dawned  upon 
Trent  that  the  added  excitement  in  the  air  was  due 
to  his  departure.  People  with  whom  he  had  exchanged 
but  a  nod  twice  daily  shook  hands  with  him  and  told 
him  to  come  back.  He  realised  that  they  were  sorry  to 
see  him  go.  Sahuaro  was  fond  of  him.  He  had  been 
generous  in  his  admiration,  and  they  saw  he  was  re- 
luctant to  leave,  and  knew  he  had  enjoyed  himself. 
That  was  the  fact  which  had  won  them.  They  liked 
to  see  newcomers  enjoy  themselves.  It  was  the  finest 
tribute  that  could  be  paid  their  town.  His  figure,  which 
a  few  weeks  had  made  so  familiar  in  the  streets,  would 
be  missed.  Hay  don  had  told  that  he  was  a  judge,  and 
they  liked  to  think  he  was  a  distinguished  Easterner. 
A  young  Mexican  with  whom  he  had  some  slight  ac- 
quaintance pressed  a  box  of  cigarettes  upon  him,  and 
the  station-master  gave  him  the  best  of  his  paper- 
backed novels  to  read  on  the  train. 

Finally  it  was  all  over,  and  he  found  himself  on  the 
rear  platform  of  the  last  car,  as  the  great  Overland 
pulled  out  of  the  station.  The  telegraph  operator's 
girl  was  waving  her  handkerchief  to  him,  and  he  smiled 
back  at  her,  holding  his  hat  in  his  hand,  and  conscious 
of  a  choking  sensation  in  his  throat.  The  last  person 
he  saw  was  Lispenard  standing  on  the  platform,  for- 
getful of  the  vanishing  train,  his  face  turned  toward 
the  dying  light  on  the  desert. 
[168] 


CHAPTER    TWELVE 

It  was  with  a  lift  of  spirits  so  strong  as  to  be  relief 
that  he  bought  the  new  number  of  his  favourite  maga- 
zine and  went  into  the  reading  room.  He  was  going 
directly  home.  He  had  spent  all  his  time  in  Sahuaro, 
and  must  give  up  the  trip  further  west.  But  he  would 
be  glad  to  get  back  and  resume  his  work  again.  He 
did  not  regret  the  last  few  weeks,  but  he  was  thankful 
they  were  over.  He  turned  over  the  pages  of  the  mag- 
azine, and  found  a  paper  written  by  a  friend  of  his, 
a  man  who  had  made  himself  an  authority  in  the  law. 
His  keen  ambition,  his  sense  of  rivalry,  infinitely  re- 
moved in  his  self-respecting  nature  from  anything  like 
jealousy,  was  roused,  and  he  read  the  article  through 
carefully.  It  was  not  until  he  finished  it  that  he  looked 
out  of  the  window  and  was  brought  back  to  a  con- 
sciousness of  the  desert.  A  band  of  orange  still  held 
in  the  west.  The  evening  was  calm,  there  was  no  wind 
blowing,  and  the  desert  was  quiet  in  a  desolation  which 
was  never  peace.  Mountains  rose  and  faded  away. 
Cacti  fled  backwards,  but  always  with  their  crooked 
arms  stretched  forward  as  they  retreated.  He  had  the 
same  sinister  impression  of  them  as  Adele  had  when 
she  took  her  little  sons  and  went  away. 


[169] 


CHAPTER    XIII 

EiPENARD,  as  he  tore  the  leaf  from  his  desk- 
calendar,  was  surprised  to  realise  that  his  wife 
had  been  gone  nearly  a  month.  He  had  received 
a  letter  written  immediately  upon  her  arrival  in  the 
New  England  town  in  which  her  brother  lived,  and 
where  she  would  remain  until  she  had  placed  Jim  and 
Tiggy  in  school.  The  boys  would  be  day-pupils,  and 
make  their  home  with  their  uncle,  who  was  willing  to 
bear  all  expenses  for  the  pleasure  of  having  them  with 
him.  Meanwhile,  she  might  stay  on  several  months, 
unless  her  husband  needed  her.  He  answered  at 
once,  urging  her  to  stay  until  she  was  really  ready  to 
come  back,  and  letting  her  know,  as  delicately  as  pos- 
sible, that  he  had  paid  back  the  five  hundred  dollars 
to  Trent.  He  did  not  wish  to  mortify  her  by  any  un- 
due reference  to  the  matter,  but  he  thought  she  would 
be  relieved  to  know  they  were  not  indebted  to  his 
friend.  He  concluded  the  letter  with  all  the  current 
news,  and  told  her  that  he  would  send  her  the  Sahuaro 
C  our  ant  daily.  He  enclosed  the  cheque  for  his  month's 
salary,  begging  her  to  use  it  for  herself,  and  not  to  be 
concerned  for  him,  as  he  had  been  well  paid  for  his 
article  on  the  desert  flora.  It  was  not  until  after  he 
mailed  the  letter  that  he  remembered  he  had  for- 
[170] 


CHAPTER     THIRTEEN 

gotten  to  mention  the  boys  once  in  it,  and  he  was  sorry 
for  the  omission,  knowing  it  would  hurt  her.  After 
the  first  chill  of  being  alone  in  the  house  wore  away  he 
enjoyed  an  almost  hermit-like  existence.  He  sent 
his  book  on  its  rounds  again,  and  he  put  all  his  ener- 
gies into  the  writing  of  a  second  one  he  had  long 
planned.  The  magazine  which  accepted  his  arti- 
cle on  the  flora  ordered  another  paper  from  him,  and 
this  second  cheque  he  invested  in  some  books  he  had 
long  wanted.  When  he  undid  the  wrappings  from 
them  on  their  arrival  he  experienced  a  delightful  sense 
of  wickedness  at  the  thought  of  Adele,  that  most  prac- 
tical, if  wholly  charming,  wife.  She  had  taken  five 
hundred  dollars  and  gone  away  on  a  good  time. 
Should  he  not  take  his  twenty-five  that  he  had  earned 
extra,  and  expend  it  in  books,  if  he  so  wished?  Let 
her  scold  him  if  she  dare,  after  her  own  extravagance ! 
It  was  surprising  to  find  out  on  how  little  he  could 
live.  The  house  belonged  to  the  church,  and  he  had 
no  rent  to  pay ;  his  wardrobe  was  presentable,  and  he 
took  but  two  meals  a  day,  getting  his  own  breakfast 
and  having  dinner  at  Campi's.  He  worked  steadily  all 
day,  and  did  not  go  out  until  after  five  o'clock  in  the 
afternoon.  He  had  never  been  happier  nor  felt  in 
better  health.  It  was  his  theory  that  a  man  who  had 
learned  the  power  of  concentration  did  not  get  ex- 
hausted easily,  and  he,  in  fact,  was  never  conscious  of 
being  mentally  tired.  As  some  women,  even  in  illness, 
[171] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

never  lose  a  certain  bloom  of  colour,  so  his  mind  re- 
tained always  a  vital  freshness,  although  his  fingers 
might  grow  stiff  and  his  back  ache  from  the  long 
hours  spent  at  his  desk.    His  church  duties  were  few, 
and  the  services  had  long  ago  become  such  a  routine 
to  him  that  they  were  little  responsibility.    Except  on 
Sunday   he  thus  saw  little  of  people.    When  Cozzens 
was  in  town  they  spent  their  evenings  together,  gen- 
erally going  on  long  walks.     He  showed  a  tact  and 
worldliness  scarcely  to  be  expected  in  him  in  regard 
to  Miss  Armes,  for  he  was  prone  to  unconventionality. 
If  they  met  on  the  street  it  was  by  chance,  and  he 
never  went  to  call  on  her  unless  others  were  to  be  there. 
The  season  was  unusually  hot  and  the  desert  looked 
bleached  so  that  its  white  sands  raised  by  the  wind 
resembled  a  line  of  breakers  in  the  distance;  and  the 
shadows  seemed  blacker  by  contrast  and  the  moonlight 
almost  greenish.     The  spring  had  passed  with  March ; 
the  several  invalids  who  had  swelled  his  congregation 
went  away ;  during  the  middle  of  the  day  Sahuaro 
slept  beneath  its  red- tiled  roofs.  But  it  was  never  so  hot 
that  he  could  not  work,  and  he  found  the  dry  air  stim- 
ulating, even  exciting,  with  the  prospect  of  recreation 
in  the  evening :  the  dinner  at  Campi's,  with  its  pint  of 
claret  served  without  extra  charge,  the  stroll  in  the 
plaza  afterwards,  and  an  exchange  of  remarks  on  the 
heat   with   Haydon,   and  sometimes   a  call   on   Miss 
Armes.    She  kept  open  house  these  hot  evenings,  and 
[172] 


CHAPTER     THIRTEEN 

received  her  callers  in  her  stiff,  picturesque  garden, 
with  its  palms  and  magnolia  and  fig  trees,  and  oranges 
ripening  like  gold  balls  in  the  warm  dusk.  There 
was  the  fountain,  the  splash  of  whose  spray  into 
the  basin  was  sweeter  than  music  in  that  desert 
country.  It  was  here  that  her  father  used  to 
walk  up  and  down,  up  and  down,  on  such  evenings. 
Now  she  dragged  out  the  old  Sefiora  Teresa,  and 
made  her  wear  her  best  black  silk  and  lace  mantle,  and 
sit  on  the  veranda  the  whole  long  evening — a  deaf  and 
most  unwilling  duenna.  When  Mrs.  Lispenard  was 
home  she  had  not  been  needed,  for  Miss  Armes  never 
entertained  nor  had  a  caller  without  her  friend.  In 
spite  of  Adele's  jealousy,  the  two  women  had  been  in- 
separable for  years.  There  gathered  about  her  several 
Spanish-Americans,  of  good  family,  young  men  of 
much  polish  and  slight  education,  vicious  as  they  were 
romantic,  with  an  eye  to  her  fortune  beneath  their  gal- 
lantry. Lispenard  began  to  remain  away  when  he 
might  have  gone.  Their  frivolity  wore  on  his  nerves 
after  his  first  philosophical  resolve  to  understand 
them.  He  wondered  that  she  could  endure  their  shal- 
lowness.  Cozzens  growled  and  grumbled  and  scolded 
her  to  no  avail,  and  established  his  substantial  person 
on  her  veranda  the  evenings  he  was  in  town,  and  re- 
mained until  all  the  other  callers  had  departed.  The 
fact  that  he  had  wished  to  marry,  her  for  years  gave 
him  a  proprietary  feeling  in  her,  although  she  persist- 
[173] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

ently  refused  his  suit.  At  last  the  suspicion  crossed 
Lispenard's  puzzled  mind  that  she  gathered  these 
shallow  young  men  about  her  to  protect  herself  against 
him.  The  thought  that  she  could  think  him  so  lacking 
in  tact  stung  him.  Contemptuous  as  he  was  of  money, 
he  thought  he  enjoyed  in  her  eyes  the  reputation  of  a 
worldly  man.  He  would  be  the  last  person  to  seek  her 
in  his  wife's  absence.  This  reflection  disquieted  him. 
It  flung  him  into  a  kind  of  fever,  and  made  him  long 
to  re-establish  himself  in  her  opinion.  It  effected  his 
work,  so  that  it  became  of  uneven  quality.  He  was 
thinking  of  all  this  late  one  afternoon,  as  he  sat  on  his 
doorstep  in  the  shade  of  Santa  Ines,  his  hat  on,  his 
cane  in  his  hand,  preparatory  to  meeting  Cozzens  at 
Campi's.  He  wished  he  might  see  her  once  more  in 
the  old  way,  and  for  the  first  time  he  was  impatient 
with  Adele.  Her  going  had  closed  the  only  doorway 
which  he  wished  to  enter,  and  deprived  him  of  that 
intellectual  sympathy  on  which  he  had  so  long  de- 
pended. 

The  sunlight  fell  like  gold  on  the  crumbling  yellow 
wall  of  Santa  Ines.  The  vines  Mrs.  Lispenard  had 
planted  were  withered  for  lack  of  water.  As  he  sat 
looking  at  them,  thinking  he  might  have  watered  them 
himself,  Miss  Armes  came  into  the  range  of  his  vision 
as  she  passed  the  corner  of  the  old  mission.  She 
stopped  at  his  gate. 

"  Don't  get  up,"  she  said.  "  I  am  not  coming  in. 
[174] 


CHAPTER     THIRTEEN 

I  only  wanted  to  tell  you  I  had  a  letter  from  Tiggy 
last  night.  It  was  very  cunning.  I  have  it  here  for 
you.  Don't  forget  to  give  it  back  to  me.  I  think  he 
must  be  studying  geography,  for  he  addressed  the  let- 
ter to  me  as  Yucatan  Amies.  He  has  probably  con- 
vinced himself  that  my  being  named  after  the  yucca 
is  all  nonsense,  and  that  he  has  discovered  my  proper 
name." 

"  I  don't  doubt  it,"  he  answered,  joining  her  at  the 
gate.  "  He  must  think  Yucca  is  a  nickname,  much 
as  his  own  is.  I've  never  been  able  to  see  how  Mrs.  Lis- 
penard  evolved  Tiggy  out  of  Theodore,  although  I've 
twisted  my  tongue  a  dozen  different  ways  trying  to 
see.  It  is  a  triumph  of  maternal  love,  I  think,  don't 
you?" 

"  I  think  she  had  better  come  home,"  she  said ;  "  she 
took  all  our  good  times  with  her.  I've  been  going  to 
the  church  sewing  society  religiously  lately,  and 
you've  no  idea  how  they  all  miss  her." 

She  lingered  at  the  gate,  rested,  and  freshly  dressed 
from  her  siesta.  A  breeze,  cooler  than  they  had  known 
for  some  days,  was  rising  as  the  day  declined.  It 
stirred  her  hair  and  blew  pleasantly  on  his  face. 

"  I  had  a  letter  from  Trent,"  he  said ;  "  he  wished  to 
be  remembered  to  you.  He  would  have  written  sooner, 
but  he  was  very  busy." 

"  Why  does  Mr.  Cozzens  dislike  him  so  ? "  she 
asked. 

[175] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

"  Cozzens  is  apt  to  hold  to  violent  prejudices  as 
though  they  were  the  moral  law  with  him,"  he  an- 
swered. "  Jarvis  Trent  is  my  best  friend.  I  wish  you 
could  come  in  a  moment  and  see  some  new  books  I 
have,  but  I  will  bring  them  over  this  evening  if  you 
are  to  be  home.  My  conscience  is  burdened  with  the 
whole  of  the  '  Arabian  Nights.'  You've  no  idea  how 
guilty  I  feel.  I  foresee  that,  like  Scheherezade,  I  am 
doomed  to  spend  a  few  wakeful  nights  myself  trying 
to  invent  some  excuse  to  make  to  Mrs.  Lispenard.  I 
lay  it  all  to  the  pernicious  habit  of  reading  publishers' 
catalogues.  If  I  hadn't  read  the  descriptions  of  this 
sumptuous  edition  I  never  would  have  bought  it,  for 
I  didn't  need  it." 

"  I  think  that  I  shall  have  to  write  to  Mrs.  Lispen- 
ard," she  said  mischievously.  "  Oh,  dear,  I  wish  I  could 
see  her !  Men  never  understand  how  it  is  that  women 
depend  so  much  on  each  other,  do  they  ?  " 

She  looked  away  from  him  down  the  vista  of  the 
little  street  to  where  the  far-off  mountains  rose  mag- 
nificently as  though  to  vie  in  splendour  with  the 
heated  sunset. 

It  seemed  to  him,  watching,  that  a  shade  was  on  her 
face,  too  wistful  to  be  occasioned  by  the  sentiment  of 
her  last  remark.  For  several  years  his  association  with 
her  had  come  to  be  the  delicate  delight  of  his  intellec- 
tual life.  Adele's  going  had  severed  this  companion- 
ship, and  he  was  saddened  now  by  an  instinctive  feeling 
[176]  ' 


CHAPTER     THIRTEEN 

that  it  would  never  be  re-established.  In  his  depression 
he  could  not  imagine  that  Adele  would  really  return, 
and  all  would  be  as  it  once  had  been. 

The  shadow  passed  from  her  face  as  he  watched 
her,  and  he  thought  the  expression  that  followed  gave 
her  beauty  a  look  of  immortality.  So  might  a  soul 
translated  look,  he  fancied.  She  turned  her  gaze  back 
to  him,  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  read  in  her  clear 
eyes  both  acceptance  and  regret  of  the  situation  which 
did  not  permit  them  to  see  each  other  freely. 

She  gathered  up  her  trailing  skirts  to  go.  "  If  you 
will  bring  me  over  the  '  Arabian  Nights  '  to  look  at  I 
will  give  you  in  return  a  bundle  of  papers  and  maga- 
zines. Come  early,  won't  you?  There  are  several 
coming,  and  we  may  have  quite  a  party." 

"  I  hope  you  have  marked  the  articles  you  liked 
best,  since  we  may  no  longer  read  them  aloud  to- 
gether," he  said. 

She  glanced  back  over  her  shoulder.  "  Do  I  need  to 
mark  them?  "  she  asked,  smiling. 

He  laughed.  The  coquetry  of  the  remark  was  more 
like  Adele  than  herself.  She  was  right.  They  both 
missed  Adele — child  and  woman  both!  He  stood  at 
his  gate,  watching  her  until  she  crossed  the  street  and 
entered  her  own  home,  then  went  out  himself,  stepping 
in  the  opposite  direction,  swinging  his  walking-stick 
exultantly.  The  evening  promised  well.  After  din- 
ner he  and  Cozzens  would  walk  up  to  have  their  cigars 
[177] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

in  her  garden,  and  on  his  return  home  he  would  look 
over  the  papers  and  magazines  she  had  laid  aside  for 
him.  How  well  he  knew  what  she  would  approve  of, 
what  she  would  discriminate  against ! 

He  stopped  at  the  post-office  in  the  rear  of  the 
drug-store  to  mail  a  letter  to  his  wife  in  which  he  had 
made  delightful  confession  of  the  "  Arabian  Nights," 
and  then  turned  his  steps  toward  Campi's. 

As  he  reached  the  double  screen  doors  he  remem- 
bered how  Trent  had  been  delighted  with  the  old- 
fashioned  arctic  and  tropical  scenes  painted  on  either 
door.  The  room  was  fairly  well  filled.  Cozzens  was 
already  there,  and  pounding  on  the  table  for  "  more 
juice." 

Lispenard  laughed,  and  took  the  seat  opposite  him 
at  the  small  table.  He  broke  off  the  crusty  end  of  the 
loaf  of  French  bread,  and  ate  it  slowly  with  a  tumbler 
of  claret  from  his  pint  pitcher.  He  was  tired.  Din- 
ner was  welcome,  and  Cozzens's  buoyant  physical  pres- 
ence a  relief,  but  he  missed  Trent.  It  had  been  a  rare 
treat  to  have  a  cultivated  man  for  a  companion  once 
more. 

Cozzens  swallowed  his  food  rapidly,  and  talked  be- 
tween courses  in  his  husky,  velvety  voice.  He  had  been 
having  trouble  at  the  mines  with  the  men,  and  had 
settled  the  uprising  himself  without  any  advice  from 
his  overseers.  He  emphasised  by  gestures  the  scenes 
through  which  he  had  gone.  When  he  spoke  of  his 
[178] 


CHAPTER     THIRTEEN 

foremen  he  brought  his  fist  down  on  the  table,  and 
damned  them  outright  for  their  presumption  in  think- 
ing to  reason  with  him. 

Lispenard  laughed.  He  recalled  scenes  when 
he  himself  had  attempted  to  argue  with  his  com- 
panion. "  I  think  they  were  more  rash  than  presump- 
tuous," he  said.  He  knew  the  great  mine  owner  was 
ugly  with  his  men,  and  drove  them.  But  every  at- 
tempt on  his  part  to  make  Cozzens  see  how  hard  he  was 
had  been  futile.  He  only  succeeded  in  wounding  him, 
for  to  differ  from  him  on  a  matter  in  which  he  was  an 
authority  was  treachery  to  his  way  of  thinking.  Did 
he  not  take  unquestioningly  the  word  of  his  friend  on 
religious  subjects,  and  was  he  not  willing  to  fight  to 
the  death  to  prove  Lispenard  was  right  ?  This  trouble 
had  been  delightful  to  him,  and  whetted  his  taste  for 
more.  The  days  had  been  growing  tame.  His  full 
eyes  narrowed ;  his  jaw  squared.  He  took  for  granted 
that  his  friend's  courtesy  implied  his  sympathy,  and 
he  continued  talking  on  the  subject  as  he  mixed  the 
lettuce  salad  for  them  both  and  flung  in  plentiful 
dashes  of  red  pepper.  Cozzens's  salads  invariably 
brought  tears  to  all  eyes  but  his  own. 

To  their  left,  on  the  other  side  of  the  room,  Lispen- 
ard observed  a  group  of  three  Mexicans.  He  faced 
them  while  the  back  of  his  companion  was  toward 
them.  It  was  some  time  since  the  three  had  finished 
dinner,  but  they  lingered  over  their  black  coffee, 
[179] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

smoking  cigarettes.  One  of  them  was  a  young 
woman.  After  a  little  he  saw  that  the  men's  muttered 
remarks,  and  the  girl's  pert  tosses  of  her  black  head, 
were  directed  toward  his  companion.  Cozzens,  turn- 
ing around  to  swear  after  the  waiter  for  bringing  his 
coffee  cold,  was  diverted  from  that  intention  as  he  saw 
the  group  behind  him.  One  of  the  Mexicans  was  a 
fellow  he  had  dismissed  from  his  employ  that  week. 
He  had  been  foremost  in  stirring  up  the  trouble  of 
which  he  had  been  telling  Lispenard.  He  now  gave 
the  man  an  insolent  stare,  as  if  he  had  been  a  dog. 
Then  he  recognised  in  the  woman  a  girl  on  whom  he 
had  once  been  sweet,  and  gave  her  a  prodigious  wink. 
She  tittered  in  response. 

With  a  snarling  cry  the  Mexican  leapt  to  his  feet, 
his  knife  drawn. 

"  So,"  warned  Madame  Campi,  watching  from  her 
desk. 

Deliberately,  yet  more  swiftly  than  it  seemed  pos- 
sible for  such  a  large  man  to  move,  Cozzens  turned  to 
the  danger  of  that  snarling  cry  as  at  the  hiss  of  a  rat- 
tlesnake, and  without  rising  from  his  chair  covered 
the  man  with  his  revolver. 

A  second  passed  thus,  and  ere  it  went  everyone  had 
disappeared  from  view  with  the  exception  of  Lispen- 
ard, Madame  Campi,  who  had  not  stirred,  except  to 
stop  crocheting,  and  the  two  men  at  bay. 

The  Mexican,  pinned  like  a  butterfly  against  the 
[180] 


CHAPTER     THIRTEEN 

wall  by  that  aim,  turned  a  ghastly  greenish  hue,  his 
eyes  dull  with  fear,  yet  ominous  and  black  with  hatred. 
He  had  drawn  a  weapon  first,  and  his  enemy  was  free 
to  fire  in  self-defence.  Lispenard  saw  the  hard  jaw  of 
the  great  mine  owner  settle,  the  full  eyes  narrow.  Coz- 
zens  was  taking  a  final,  more  deliberate  aim.  The 
blood  rushed  to  Lispenard's  head.  He  knew  how 
hard  this  man  had  been. 

He  reached  across  the  table  and  struck  his  arm  up. 

"  My  God,  Cozzens,"  he  cried,  "  you  can't  kill  the 
fellow  in  cold  blood !  " 

The  revolver  went  off,  and  was  followed  by  a  splin- 
tering sound.  The  bullet  had  gone  through  the  big 
gilt  mirror  at  the  end  of  the  long  room. 

Before  Cozzens,  in  his  amazement,  could  take 
aim  again,  the  Mexican  sprang  around  the  table,  his 
knife  raised.  Lispenard,  with  a  cry  of  agony,  as  he 
realised  that  his  impulsive  interference  had  put  his 
friend  in  the  power  of  his  enemy,  flung  himself  between 
the  two  men.  With  an  instinctive  remembrance  of  boy^ 
ish  fights  with  Jarvis  Trent,  he  thrust  his  leg  around 
the  Mexican's,  and  with  a  twist  flung  him  to  the  floor, 
and  fell  on  top  of  him.  The  two  rolled  over  and  over, 
until  they  were  stopped  by  a  table.  Lispenard  felt  a 
sting  in  his  shoulder  that  was  like  fire.  He  wondered 
why  Cozzens  did  not  do  something  to  help  him,  but 
even  as  the  thought  passed  through  his  mind  he  was 
released. 

[181] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

The  mine  owner  dragged  the  Mexican  to  his  feet, 
and  twisted  his  arm  until  he  dropped  the  knife  with 
a  shriek. 

"  You  damned  dirty  rattler,"  he  said,  slowly  em- 
phasising each  word  with  a  shaking,  "  I  am  going  to 
let  you  go  because  Mr.  Lispenard  interfered,  the  same 
which  he  had  no  right  to  do,  but  I'm  not  going  back 
on  a  friend,  and  if  he  seen  fit  to  let  you  live,  you  var- 
mint, live  you  do." 

The  man's  companions  crawled  out  from  under  the 
table  where  they  had  taken  refuge.  The  girl  was 
ashen  and  shaking,  her  pert  prettiness  gone.  Campi, 
in  his  cook's  cap  and  apron,  came  from  the  kitchen  and 
helped  Lispenard  into  a  chair. 

"  You're  not  hurt,  sir?  "  he  asked. 

"  A  trifle  shaken,"  he  answered. 

Cozzens  still  held  on  to  the  Mexican,  loath  to  let 
him  go. 

The  silence  which  had  fallen  was  scarcely  less  in- 
tense than  the  excitement  had  been.  The  waiter,  who 
had  fled  into  the  street,  opened  the  screen  doors,  and 
put  his  head  in  cautiously. 

"  Where  are  you,  Carlota  ?  "  asked  Cozzens. 

The  girl  came  around  in  front,  shaking. 

"  Now,  Carlota,"  he  said  huskily,  "  I  want  you  to 
see  that  this  fellow  of  yours  goes  off  peaceable." 

"  Yes,"  she  answered  sullenly. 

He  fixed  her  with  his  powerful  eye.  "  Here  now,  no 
[  182  ] 


CHAPTER     THIRTEEN 

black  looks,  my  girl.  Give  me  a  kiss  to  show  it's  all 
right." 

All,  except  the  writhing  Mexican,  grinned. 

She  hesitated,  then  put  up  her  face,  and  Cozzens 
kissed  her,  with  a  wink  at  Lispenard,  who  sat  leaning 
back  in  his  chair,  pale  and  smiling. 

The  woman  coloured  with  relief  and  flattery.  Her 
coquetry  was  appealed  to.  The  impending  tragedy 
had  ended  in  a  kiss  from  her.  She  dragged  at  her 
companion's  arm,  ashamed  of  him  for  being  defeated, 
and  the  two  went  off,  followed  by  the  other  man  who 
had  dined  with  them.  As  the  painted  screen  doors 
swung  behind  the  three,  the  Mexican,  who  up  to  that 
moment  had  maintained  an  ugly  silence,  began  to 
talk. 

Cozzens  began  to  laugh.  "  He's  all  right  now. 
Those  Mexicans  will  sometimes  take  it  all  out  in  gab- 
bling." He  resumed  his  seat  at  the  table.  "  Hi,  you," 
he  shouted  to  the  waiter,  "  have  you  got  that  coffee 
hot  yet?" 

Lispenard  had  a  burning  sensation  in  his  shoulder 
and  side,  but  he  was  conscious  of  a  great  elation. 
There  was  a  moment  when  he  thought  Cozzens  was 
Trent  down  by  the  swimming-pool. 

"  I  feel  like  a  boy  again,"  he  said. 

"  So,"  warned  Madame  Campi  again. 

Cozzens  looked  across  the  table,  staring.  Then 
with  a  cry  he  was  on  his  feet.  "  My  God,  the  man's 
[183] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

dying !  "  He  lifted  Lispenard  in  his  powerful  arms 
and  carried  him  out  into  the  street,  kicking  open  the 
screen  doors  with  his  foot. 

"  Stand  away ! "  he  shouted  to  the  group  of  men 
about  the  step ;  "  he  wants  air."  He  laid  him  down  on 
the  sidewalk,  supporting  his  head  and  shoulders  in 
his  arms. 

Madame  Campi  came  hurrying  out  with  a  glass  of 
brandy,  and  forced  it  between  the  white  lips,  holding 
the  glass  with  one  plump,  steady  hand  while  the  other 
stroked  his  forehead. 

"  So,  so,"  she  murmured. 

The  tears  were  rolling  down  Cozzens's  face.  He 
tried  to  raise  his  friend  into  a  more  comfortable  posi- 
tion, and  Lispenard  winced  and  opened  his  eyes.  The 
brandy  had  revived  him.  Madame  Campi  removed 
the  glass  from  his  lips,  and  her  hand  from  his  fore- 
head, but  her  watchful  eyes  did  not  leave  his  face. 
He  struggled  to  rise.  He  was  always  humiliated  by 
physical  helplessness.  With  the  help  of  Cozzens  and 
Madame  Campi  he  managed  to  get  on  his  feet.  Campi, 
white  as  his  cook's  cap  and  apron,  brought  out  his  hat 
and  put  it  on  his  head. 

"  Thank  you,"  he  said,  and  then  suddenly  col- 
lapsed into  Madame  Campi's  plump  arms.  She 
forced  him  to  sit  down  on  the  doorstep. 

"  I'm  too  proud,"  he  said,  his  eyes  twinkling  with 
his  ready  humour ;  "  call  the  stage,  Cozzens." 
[184] 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE  wound  in  Lispenard's  side  proved  to  be 
an  ugly  one.  The  Mexican's  knife  had  barely 
missed  his  heart,  but  the  stab  on  his  shoulder 
was  little  more  than  a  scratch.  Cozzens  established 
himself  in  the  house  with  him,  and  occupied  Tiggy 
and  Jim's  room,  rising  early  in  the  mornings  to  pre- 
pare breakfast.  He  was  proud  of  the  cup  of  coffee 
he  could  make,  and  the  delicacy  with  which  he  could 
poach  an  egg  and  slip  it  from  the  boiling  water 
on  to  a  slice  of  toast  without  breaking  it.  It  was  not 
until  he  had  made  the  invalid  comfortable  for  the  day, 
and  seen  him  eat  his  breakfast,  that  he  went  out  and 
had  his  own  on  the  kitchen  table.  After  breakfast  the 
women  in  the  neighbourhood  took  turns  staying  with 
Lispenard  through  the  day,  until  he  came  home  at 
night  after  an  early  dinner  at  Campi's,  bringing  his 
friend's  supper  on  a  tray.  It  distressed  him  that  he 
was  obliged  to  be  at  his  office  all  day.  Occasionally  he 
sent  up  his  stenographer  to  see  how  the  invalid  was 
doing.  His  anxiety  was  touched  with  pride  at  the 
fight  Lispenard  had  made. 

The  time  passed  wearily  for  the  sick  man.    His  sev- 
eral nurses  finally  gave  place  to  one.    Most  of  the 
women  who  attended  his  church  were  hard-working, 
[185] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

with  many  duties,  and  could  not  well  be  spared  from 
their  homes,  so  the  wife  of  the  druggist,  a  prosperous 
and  comfortable  woman  of  middle  life,  took  the  respon- 
sibility of  nursing  him.  She  was  a  mother  in  Israel  in 
his  parish,  and  the  president  of  the  Women's  Aux- 
iliary League.  Well,  Lispenard  had  always  been  able 
to  defy  her,  but,  ill,  she  had  him  at  her  mercy,  and 
served  him  with  a  sentiment  not  due  to  his  personal- 
ity, but  to  his  profession.  Her  respect  for  her  rector 
as  such  was  unbounded,  and  he  groaned  inwardly  when 
she  tiptoed  about  his  bed.  In  the  morning  she  read 
a  chapter  from  the  Bible  to  him  and  in  the  afternoon 
the  service  and  selection  of  psalms  for  the  day.  He 
could  not  enjoy  the  reading,  as  her  voice  was  so  mo- 
notonous. Now  and  then  he  heard  Miss  Armes  en- 
quire for  him  at  the  door.  Old  Teresa  brought  him 
over  some  delicacy  every  day,  and  several  times  his 
lunch,  hot  and  well  cooked.  He  wakened  from 
a  nap  one  afternoon,  and  asked  Mrs.  Burns  to  bring 
him  a  bundle  of  papers  and  magazines  from  his  table. 

She  was  unable  to  find  them.  "  Can  you  think  what 
you  did  with  them,  Mr.  Lispenard?  " 

He  frowned  in  the  effort  to  think  clearly.  Then 
his  face  cleared.  "  Oh,  I  remember.  I  never  got 
them.  Never  mind,  Mrs.  Burns."  And  he  turned 
over  on  his  pillow  with  a  sigh. 

His  first  request  when  they  had  gotten  him  into 
bed  the  evening  of  the  stabbing  was  that  Mrs.  Lispen- 
[186] 


CHAPTER    FOURTEEN 

ard  should  not  hear  of  it.  He  did  not  wish  her  visit 
spoiled.  Fortunately  he  had  mailed  a  letter  to  her 
only  that  afternoon,  and  she  would  not  expect  to  hear 
again  from  him  immediately.  Still  he  thought  it  as 
well  that  in  about  a  week  Cozzens  should  write  to  Jim, 
and  mention  casually  that  his  father  was  absorbed  in 
his  new  book. 

"  My  poor  wife  will  be  more  convinced  than  ever 
that  I'm  a  Jock  o'  Dreams  if  I  seem  to  forget  to  write 
to  her,"  he  said,  sighing  a  little  when  they  had  agreed 
upon  this  artful  letter. 

He  found  that  reading  continued  into  the  after- 
noon gave  him  a  nervous  headache,  and  he  was  obliged 
to  wait  patiently  through  the  longest  hours  of  an  in- 
valid's day  until  Cozzens  should  come  home.  Through 
the  half-open  door  of  his  bedroom  he  could  hear  Mrs. 
Burns  singing  a  hymn  as  she  sewed,  or  else  gossiping 
with  some  crony  who  came  in  to  spend  the  afternoon 
with  her.  Once  he  heard  her  refer  to  him  as  a  lamb, 
and  the  remark  flung  him  into  a  mood  of  nervous  ex^ 
asperation,  although  he  was  not  without  humourous 
appreciation  of  his  own  helpless  rage.  He  insisted 
upon  dismissing  his  physician  after  the  first  few  days, 
and  greeted  smilingly  the  disturbed  Cozzens,  who  came 
hurrying  home  from  a  meeting  with  the  doctor  on  the 
street. 

"  I  won't  have  him  running  up  any  more  of  a  bill 
on  me.  Every  visit  means  a  book  lacking  on  my 
[187] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

shelves  that  I  might  have  afforded  otherwise.  Besides, 
I  don't  like  him.  I  can't  bear  his  clammy  fingers  pok- 
ing about  my  ribs,  and  he  is  a  Unitarian  who  never 
would  support  the  church  anyway,  so  I  can  afford  to 
insult  him." 

"  It  seems  to  me  you've  changed  a  lot  lately,"  said 
Cozzens  drily. 

"  I  have,"  Lispenard  retorted  serenely.  "  My 
blood's  up  now.  I've  been  too  meek." 

Lispenard's  old  physician,  a  man  who  had  settled  in 
Sahuaro  about  the  time  they  did,  was  abroad  for  a 
year  with  his  family,  and  he  had  confided  his  practice 
to  a  young  man  who  had  come  West  for  his  health. 
In  his  heart  Cozzens  sympathised  in  his  friend's  aver- 
sion to  the  young  man. 

"  He  pulled  you  through,  though,  all  right,"  he 
said  gruffly. 

"  I  don't  care,"  said  Lispenard,  sitting  up  in  bed  to 
eat  his  supper,  "  he's  a  dolichocephalous  blonde.  What 
does  he  mean  by  having  cold  fingers!  It's  impudent 
of  him  in  this  glorious  climate.  And  in  a  few  days 
I'm  going  to  send  old  Lady  Burns  kiting.  With  her 
the  Woman's  Auxiliary  has  done  its  worst !  "  He  had 
not  been  in  such  high  spirits  since  he  was  taken  ill. 

When  it  grew  dark  Cozzens  brought  in  the  lighted 

lamp  and  placed  it  on  the  bureau,  and  sat  down  by  the 

side  of  the  bed  to  read  aloud.     He  had  no  eye  for  the 

printed  page  nor  ear  for  subtle  distinctions  of  pro- 

[188] 


CHAPTER    FOURTEEN 

nunciation,  and  Lispenard  now  and  then  corrected 
him.  He  generally  accepted  the  suggestion,  but 
sometimes  he  held  obstinately  to  his  own  opinion.  This 
evening  he  insisted  upon  calling  "  distance  "  "  dis- 
tant." 

"  Can't  you  hear  any  difference  between  distant  and 
distance?  "  cried  Lispenard. 

"  No,"  he  answered,  setting  his  jaw,  "  I  can't.  I 
was  brought  up  to  say  '  distant,'  like  I  seen  the  wolf 
in  the  distant." 

"  Distance,"  said  Lispenard. 

"  Just  the  same,"  Cozzens  asserted,  " '  distant.' 
The  mountains  look  distant." 

"  There,  that's  right,"  cried  Lispenard,  relieved ; 
"  now  how  would  you  say,  the  mountains  are  some  dis- 
tance away  ?  " 

"  Same,"  said  Cozzens — "  the  mountains  are  some 
distant  away." 

They  argued  it  back  and  forth  until  Lispenard  col- 
lapsed on  his  pillow,  white  with  irritation.  Cozzens, 
alarmed,  forced  him  to  swallow  a  little  port  wine. 

"  You'll  be  the  death  of  me ! "  Lispenard  cried 
angrily,  pushing  his  hand  away.  "  I  don't  want  that 
stuff.  Can't  you  say  distance?  Distance — distant. 
Distant — distance.  There,  do  you  get  it  ?  Oh,  Lord, 
don't  talk  about  it  any  more.  Sit  down.  Turn  over 
to  the  next  page.  You've  made  me  sick  at  my  stom- 
ach." 

[189] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

And  Cozzens,  furious,  but  feeling  the  necessity  of 
yielding  to  the  sick  man,  sat  down  and  resumed  the 
reading. 

Yet,  during  these  days  when  he  was  confined  to  his 
bed,  through  all  his  pain,  through  all  his  nervous  irri- 
tability, that  exaltation,  that  spiritual  rejuvenescence 
which  came  from  his  struggle  in  the  restaurant,  never 
left  him.  The  man  had  risen  above  the  timidity  of 
the  scholar.  As  he  regained  his  strength  he  spoke 
much  of  this  to  his  friend,  of  the  sense  of  the  adven- 
ture of  life  the  incident  had  given  him. 

"  I  have  learned  a  great  lesson,"  he  told  him.  "  I 
shall  force  myself  to  be  a  man  of  action.  I  have  been 
getting  into  a  rut." 

When  he  was  able  he  wrote  a  letter  to  his  wife  in 
which  he  made  no  mention  of  his  wound,  but  wrote  a 
couple  of  pages  on  the  adventure  of  life.  The  phrase 
pleased  him,  and  he  recalled  how  Trent  had  spoken  of 
it  to  him  on  that  first  evening  of  his  arrival  in  Sahuaro. 
He  had  never  answered  his  letter;  and  he  now  did  so, 
writing  the  details  of  the  affray  to  him,  knowing  that 
he  would  be  interested. 

When  he  was  able  to  go  about,  Cozzens  went  to  the 
mines,  to  be  gone  a  week.  He  had  insisted  that  a 
young  Mexican  who  went  to  Lispenard's  church 
should  stay  with  him  nights.  Mrs.  Burns  continued 
to  come  in  every  day  to  clean  up  a  bit,  as  she  expressed 
it,  and  to  visit  with  him  a  while. 
[190] 


CHAPTER    FOURTEEN 

When  he  was  strong  enough  he  went  to  call  on  Miss 
Armes  one  afternoon,  privileged  by  his  character  of 
invalid.  She  sent  word  down  to  him  that  she  was 
just  rising  from  her  siesta,  and  that  if  he  would  wait 
until  she  was  dressed  she  would  be  down  in  a  little 
while. 

It  was  such  a  hot,  dusty  day  that  he  felt  tired  from 
the  short  walk  to  her  gate,  and  was  grateful  for  the 
shade  of  the  garden  into  which  he  looked  through  the 
arching  adobe  columns  of  the  corridor.  He  wished  he 
might  see  Major  Armes  taking  his  accustomed  walk 
up  and  down  the  path  in  front  of  the  graceful  foun- 
tain. The  perfume  of  flowers  was  heavy  in  the  air; 
the  blue  sky  showing  through  the  dark  green  of  the 
magnolias  made  him  dream;  the  foliage  of  some  of 
the  trees  hid  fruit  that  gleamed  jewel-like.  He  re- 
called the  fairy  tale  of  which  Trent  had  once  spoken, 
the  miller's  daughter  whose  hands  were  cut  off  by  the 
Evil  One,  and  who  ate  the  fruit  from  the  trees  with 
her  mouth  until  the  king  made  her  silver  hands.  His 
sense  of  beauty  was  satisfied.  The  green  and  bloom- 
ing life  of  the  garden  seemed  part  of  his  own  rejuve- 
nescence. He  sat  thinking  of  gardens,  his  delicate 
half-smile  on  his  lips. 

"  The  Lady  of  the  Garden,"  he  said  when  he  rose 
to  greet  his  hostess. 

"  I  had  expected  to  see  you  looking  ill,"  she  an- 
swered. 

[191] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

"  I  am  younger  by  twenty-five  years,"  he  said ; 
"  that  fight  in  Campi's  took  me  back  to  my  boyhood." 

It  seemed  a  long  time  since  he  had  said  good-bye 
to  her  at  his  gate  that  evening. 

"  Did  you  come  for  those  papers  and  magazines  ?  " 
she  asked,  divining  his  thought.  "  I  have  saved  them." 

"  No,"  he  answered,  "  I  came  for  a  cup  of  tea.  I 
have  come  to  the  conclusion  that  it  takes  a  lady  to 
brew  a  cup  of  tea.  It  should  be  fragrant,  should  it 
not?  Mrs.  Burns  would  make  it  too  strong,  and  since 
I  get  my  own  lunches  it  doesn't  taste  right." 

"  After  such  flattery  I  will  go  in  and  make  it  my- 
self," she  said.  She  brought  out  a  nest  of  Chinese 
tea-tables  and  her  work-bag,  and  a  new  magazine 
which  had  come  the  night  before.  "  I  will  make  the 
tea  the  last  thing,"  she  told  him,  "  so  as  to  have  it 
just  right.  I  feel  that  my  reputation  is  at  stake." 

While  she  was  gone  on  this  mission  he  looked  over 
the  magazine  and  found  an  article  to  read  aloud.  The 
afternoon  was  one  of  serenity  and  charm.  After  the 
tea,  which  was  all  that  he  could  have  desired  it  to  be, 
she  took  up  her  embroidery,  and  he  read  the  article  he 
had  selected.  At  last  they  drifted  into  conversation, 
but  he  did  not  speak  of  his  own  new  spiritual  experi- 
ence, the  new  birth  he  felt  within  himself.  He  could 
mention  it  to  Cozzens,  but  to  tell  her  would  have  been 
sentimental,  if  not  absolutely  mawkish. 

His  love  of  beauty,  which  the  garden  satisfied,  deep- 
[192] 


CHAPTER    FOURTEEN 

ened  as  he  looked  at  her,  and  as  he  had  often  felt 
bathed  by  the  desert  sunshine,  so  now  his  whole  being 
seemed  permeated  with  the  warmth  and  light  of  her 
beauty.  Her  face  fascinated  him  anew  after  his  long 
deprivation;  he  loved  to  compare  her  to  the  desert. 
This  comparison  he  kept  jealously  to  himself,  and  had 
never  mentioned  it  except  once  to  Cozzens. 

"  What  have  you  been  doing  since  I  last  saw  you  ?  " 
he  asked. 

"  You  would  laugh  at  me  if  I  told  you,"  she  replied ; 
"  you  have  always  said  I  was  unpractical." 

"  Distrust  that  man  who  protests  too  much,"  he  an- 
swered. "  I  am  the  most  unpractical  person  I  ever 
knew.  That  is  why  I  make  such  a  virtue  of  practical 
ability.  Did  I  not  devote  an  entire  chapter  to  the  sub- 
ject in  my  book?  I  am  like  the  reformed  temper- 
ance lecturer  who  spoke  with  such  conviction  on  the 
horrors  of  delirium  tremens." 

"  But  you  haven't  reformed,"  she  retorted. 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  have,"  he  insisted ;  "  I  reformed  yester- 
day." 

His  blue  eyes  were  winning.  He  anticipated  what 
she  had  to  tell  him.  She,  the  delight  of  his  intellec- 
tual life,  was  so  personal  yet  so  impersonal  an  element 
in  his  existence ! 

"  It's  some  sketches  I've  been  making,"  she  ex- 
plained ;  "  wait  until  I  get  my  portfolio  from  the  li- 
brary." She  went  into  the  house  and  came  back  with 
[193] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

the  big  black  book  under  her  arms,  and,  clearing  away 
the  tea-things,  put  it  on  the  table  between  them. 

"  I  am  growing  impatient,"  he  said.  "  You  are  a 
long  time  opening  it."  He  began  to  untie  the  strings, 
his  expression  mischievous  as  Tiggy's  might  have 
been.  It  was  this  frequent  lightness  of  mood  playing 
on  the  surface  of  his  real  scholarship  which  made  him 
charming. 

She  laid  her  hand  protectingly  on  the  book;  their 
fingers  barely  escaped  touching.  "  No,  no,"  she  said, 
blushing.  He,  too,  recognised  a  change  in  her.  She 
was  no  longer  as  calm,  and  seemed  more  like  a  young 
girl  than  he  had  ever  known  her.  And  he  was  en- 
tranced by  this  rare  mood  in  her. 

"  I  will  tell  you,"  she  began,  her  eyes  on  his.  "  So 
often  I  have  been  on  the  desert  at  sunset,  and  watched 
the  mountains  grow  more  and  more  magnificent.  And 
then  I  have  felt  so  wistful  when  I  would  look  from 
them  to  the  setting  sun.  I  have  felt  that  the  moun- 
tain view  could  never  be  ruined,  but  as  Sahuaro  grows 
into  a  city  ugly  office  buildings  and  houses  will  rise 
to  spoil  that  level  line  of  the  desert  which  is  now  so 
beautiful.  So  I  picture  to  myself  the  buildings  I 
would  like  to  see  go  up  against  the  sunset.  I  thought 
of  a  church,  but  that  would  be  only  one,  and  so  I 
amused  myself  building  a  university.  Unfortunately 
all  my  building  had  to  be  done  on  paper." 

She  opened  her  book  and  showed  him  the  water- 
[194] 


CHAPTER    FOURTEEN 

colour  drawing  she  had  made  of  a  group  of  buildings 
in  the  old  mission  style  of  architecture. 

"  You  see,  I  have  copied  Santa  Ines  for  the  chapel," 
she  pointed  out  to  him. 

He  caught  the  inspiration  of  her  thought,  and 
raised  his  eyes  to  hers  with  a  kind  of  worship  shining 
in  them.  She  loved  the  desert  as  he  did ;  she  was  like 
its  embodied  spirit.  He  was  filled  with  wonder  and 
admiration  for  her,  this  woman  of  exalted  vision,  and 
he  remembered  Aspasia,  the  wife  of  Pericles. 

A  while  of  silence  succeeded.  She  sat  with  her 
hands  resting  lightly  on  the  drawing,  the  little  table 
between  them.  He  leant  forward,  defiant  of  the  pain 
in  his  side  which  made  him  wince,  and  taking  her  hand 
lifted  it  to  his  lips. 

He  never  forgot  her  amazement,  her  shame.  Not 
until  that  moment  had  he  seen  the  depths  of  her  trust 
in  him.  His  face  burned  at  the  look  she  gave  him, 
the  primitive  look  of  a  woman  startled. 

She  took  up  her  embroidery  again.  "  I  wish  I 
might  see  my  plans  followed  out,"  she  said,  matching 
a  skein  of  silk.  He  saw  that  her  one  desire  was  to 
bridge  over  the  embarrassment  of  the  preceding  mo- 
ment, and  that  the  only  thing  which  now  remained  for 
him  to  do  was  to  accept  the  situation,  and  continue 
the  conversation  along  impersonal  lines. 

"  For  a  moment,"  he  said,  "  I  had  a  feeling  of  re- 
gret that  the  element  of  eternity  in  the  landscape 
[195] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

would  have  to  go.  Even  your  beautiful  buildings  did 
not  compensate  for  that  wonderful  unbroken  line  of 
the  horizon." 

"  I  know  it,"  she  answered,  "  but  I  still  maintain 
they  would  be  better  than  office  buildings  and  separate 
houses." 

"  Of  course,"  he  assented,  but  he  scarcely  knew  what 
he  was  saying.  How  could  he  explain  to  her  that  he 
had  not  been  thinking  of  her  as  of  an  ordinary 
woman;  that  she  stirred  all  the  poetry  of  his  nature, 
and  he  saw  in  her  a  type.  But  he  was  thankful  for  her 
tact,  which  had  recalled  the  past,  which  glanced  into 
the  future,  and  decided  to  accept  this  incident  as  un- 
important in  their  friendship. 

They  maintained  the  conversation  along  neutral 
lines,  but  all  the  time  he  was  becoming  more  con- 
scious of  the  fact  that  his  first  impression  that  she  had 
changed  was  correct.  As  he  watched  her  embroidering 
he  thought  that  the  colouring  had  suddenly  gone  out 
of  her  personality ;  her  hair  was  dull,  her  face  pale.  A 
restless  unhappiness  quivered  and  went  in  her  face, 
and  settled  greyly  in  her  eyes.  He  was  reminded  of 
the  desert  in  a  sullen  mood  when  yellow  sand-storms 
whirled  and  stung,  and  obscured  the  air.  But  never 
in  its  strangest  moods  had  the  desert  ceased  to  make 
its  eternal  appeal  to  his  imagination,  nor  did  she  now. 
He  realised  that  she  was  unhappy,  yet  could  not  be- 
lieve the  evidence  of  his  eyes.  He  had  known  a  tragic 
[196] 


CHAPTER    FOURTEEN 

mood  in  her  when  her  father  was  killed,  but  her  sor- 
row had  been  too  exalted  to  find  expression  in  restless 
unhappiness.  He  spoke  to  her,  and  she  looked 
straight  at  him  with  eyes  which  did  not  seem  to  see 
him  for  a  moment.  He  could  not  believe  that  his  one 
foolish  moment  had  wrought  this  spiritual  estrange- 
ment. The  breeze  blew  the  water-colour  drawing  she 
had  made  from  the  table  into  the  garden,  and  neither 
of  them  observed  it. 

When  he  rose  to  go  he  saw  that  she  tried  to  be  un- 
conventional and  charming  once  more,  even  walking 
to  the  gate  with  him,  and  calling  attention  to  the 
plentiful  bloom  of  the  roses  over  her  doorway;  then, 
remembering  the  bundle  of  magazines,  she  insisted 
upon  his  waiting  while  she  went  back  into  the  house  to 
get  them  for  him. 

But  he  went  away  profoundly  depressed.  As  he 
walked  home  he  was  stung  by  the  thought  that  her 
magnanimity  had  been  due  to  her  consciousness  that 
he  was  a  sick  man.  He,  too,  could  appreciate  that  he 
had  shown  the  sentimentality  of  a  sick  man,  and  he 
knew  that  if  he  had  been  in  his  usual  health  he  never 
would  have  forgotten  himself.  But  the  fact  did  not 
lessen  his  humiliation. 


[197] 


CHAPTER  XV 

EPENARD  prepared  his  own  supper  that 
night,  and,  after  he  finished,  filled  his  lamp 
and  put  on  his  dressing-gown.  Then  he  seated 
himself  at  his  table  to  write.  The  evening  had  become 
chilly,  and  he  would  have  enjoyed  a  fire,  but  he  felt 
that  he  had  not  the  strength  to  go  out  and  bring  in 
the  wood.  The  young  man  who  had  been  staying 
nights  with  him  would  not  be  in  until  late,  as  he  was 
going  to  an  entertainment  in  town.  Lispenard  was 
glad  to  be  alone,  to  work  undisturbed  on  his  new  book. 
It  would  be  the  first  time  he  had  written  since  his  ill- 
ness. His  humiliation  of  the  afternoon  lent  now  a  cer- 
tain sternness  to  his  mood,  and  he  wrote  forcefully  be- 
cause of  it.  An  hour  passed  away,  and  he  became 
completely  absorbed  in  his  subject,  stimulated  to  more 
nervous  effort  by  the  frequent  catching  pain  in  his 
side.  He  felt  that  he  was  working  against  odds,  and 
his  mind  was  running  a  race  with  his  physical  self. 
A  little  before  twelve  he  reached  his  limit  of  endur- 
ance, and  put  away  his  manuscript,  but  when  he  would 
have  risen  he  was  surprised  to  find  that  he  dare  not 
get  up  from  his  desk  for  fear  of  falling.  Such  weak- 
ness seized  him  that  he  thought  he  would  have  fallen 
to  the  floor.  It  now  remained  for  him  to  wait  pa- 
[198] 


CHAPTER    FIFTEEN 

tiently  in  his  chair  until  the  young  man  should  re- 
turn. It  could  not  be  long,  for  it  was  already  late. 
He  wished  he  had  made  the  effort  after  all  to  build  a 
fire.  The  room  was  growing  cold.  He  held  his  chilled 
fingers  near  the  lamp  to  get  them  warm,  while  he 
glanced  over  his  desk,  wondering  what  he  should  do  to 
employ  himself  while  he  waited.  He  was  in  no  hu- 
mour to  write  a  letter,  and  there  was  not  a  book  nor 
paper  on  the  table  which  he  had  not  read.  Just  with- 
out his  reach,  offering  a  Tantalus  draught  of  delight, 
his  books  lined  the  walls  either  side  of  the  empty  fire- 
place. His  eye  glanced  them  over  fondly,  proudly, 
lingering  on  the  new  rich  edition  of  the  "  Arabian 
Nights."  Then  he  noticed  the  slim  blue  volume  of  Sill's 
poems,  and  wished  he  might  re-read  the  "  Venus  of 
Milo."  Line  by  line  the  poem  came  to  him — that 
immortal  vision  which  had  befallen  Praxiteles.  The 
sculptor  had  wrought  the  perfect  figure  from  the  flaw- 
less image  in  his  soul. 

He,  himself,  had  striven  to  invest  a  mortal  woman 
with  the  attributes  of  a  goddess.  He  saw  that  the 
poetry  his  imagination  had  woven  about  Miss  Armes 
had  been  sentimental ;  that  it  had  now  crumbled  to 
her  feet  like  a  veil  of  ashes,  leaving  her  very  human, 
the  eyes  he  had  thought  all  serenity  wide  with  the 
look  of  a  woman  startled.  The  goddess  he  had 
divined  in  her  was  made  mortal  by  his  own  weak- 
ness. But  the  flaw  was  in  himself,  not  her,  and  he 
[199] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

thought  with  a  pity  which  was  scarcely  personal  that 
the  sentimentality  wrought  by  the  sick  body  revealed 
a  spiritual  insincerity.  He  went  over  the  scene  of  the 
afternoon,  and  did  not  spare  himself  in  his  humilia- 
tion, analysing  pitilessly  the  impulse  which  had  led  to 
that  caress.  She  had  shown  him  those  plans  for  an 
ideal  university,  and  as  his  mind  caught  the  inspiration 
of  hers,  his  heart  had  leapt  to  the  thought  that  her 
lofty  visions  set  her  apart  from  the  ordinary  experi- 
ences of  women — love — marriage.  Her  devotion  to 
the  things  of  the  mind  seemed  like  faithfulness  to  him 
whose  intellectual  companion  she  had  been  so  long. 
His  love  of  the  desert  had  symbolised  itself  in  her 
mysterious  personality.  He  drew  pen  and  paper  to- 
ward him,  and  began  writing  a  sonnet  to  her  as  the  em- 
bodied spirit  of  the  desert.  When  he  had  finished  it 
he  folded  the  paper  and  enclosed  it  in  an  envelope  and 
wrote  her  name  on  the  outside.  It  was  a  disappoint- 
ment to  him  that  he  was  not  more  of  a  poet.  The 
thought  always  seemed  a  finer  thing  to  him  than  the 
expression,  and  he  had  not  the  lyrical  gift. 

It  pleased  him  to  write  her  name.  To-morrow  he 
would  destroy  his  verse,  which  he  had  written  only 
to  say  hail  and  farewell  to  his  old  conception  of 
her.  There  remained  to  him  a  friendly  and  lovely 
young  woman,  but  his  goddess  had  been  a  mi- 
rage woven  by  the  magical  air  of  the  desert. 
And  he  remembered  Trent's  appeal  to  him  to 
[200] 


CHAPTER    FIFTEEN 

leave,  his  urgent  warning  that  he  had  remained  too 
long.  His  soul  rose  and  combated  his  friend's  judg- 
ment, and  resolved  to  win  its  spiritual  victory  yet  from 
out  of  the  desert.  That  struggle  for  life  in  the  restau- 
rant had  left  him  more  of  a  man,  and  of  sterner 
fibre.  The  humiliation  of  the  afternoon  was  purging 
his  soul  of  sentimental  dross,  and  he  saw  how  he  had 
turned  from  his  wife's  struggling  and  anxious  spirit 
to  the  peace  of  a  girl's  untroubled  beauty.  He  sick- 
ened with  self-scorn  as  he  thought  of  Adele's  faithful- 
ness to  her  children's  welfare ;  her  impulsive  honesty ; 
her  warrantable  bitterness.  He  had  never  thought 
himself  unfaithful  to  her ;  he  looked  now  into  the 
depths  of  his  own  deception.  He,  the  philosopher, 
ever  boastful  of  his  love  of  truth,  how  had  he  dealt 
with  her  ?  And  suddenly,  as  real  as  if  her  actual  voice 
had  spoken  that  moment  in  the  room  to  him,  he  heard 
her  say : 

"  Theodore,  look  at  me  just  once  as  you  used  to. 
Look  at  me  kindly,  Theodore,  in  the  old  way.  Do  not 
make  me  feel  I  mean  nothing  to  you." 

And  the  appeal  had  not  touched  him  at  the  time, 
but  the  words  had  remained  in  his  memory.  His  poor 
wife!  Ah,  if  he  could  but  take  her  to  his  heart  that 
moment !  Clearer  his  vision  grew  and  clearer,  until  in 
his  white  face,  as  he  sat  there  so  weakly  in  his  chair, 
his  eyes  flamed  blue  and  spirit-like. 

For  some  moments  he  had  been  conscious  of  a  noise 
[201] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

in  the  street,  and  as  it  drew  nearer  he  recognised 
drunken  singing.  The  revellers  were  going  home 
from  their  party,  and  he  was  alarmed  lest  one  of  them 
should  be  the  young  fellow  he  expected. 

"  I  could  not  deal  with  a  drunken  man,"  he  thought 
helplessly,  and  managed  to  rise  and  go  to  the  door  and 
lock  it.  Then  he  turned  the  lamp  low.  The  steps  and 
singing  stopped  in  front  of  the  house,  and  in  a  mo- 
ment the  handle  of  the  door  was  turned,  and  a  foolish 
voice  called  his  name,  hiccoughing.  Another  voice, 
more  sober,  called  to  the  fellow  to  come  away  and  let 
the  minister  sleep.  There  were  some  quarrelsome  words, 
another  trial  at  the  door,  followed  by  a  kick  on  the 
panel;  then  the  sound  of  a  scuffle,  and  finally  quiet, 
and  the  sound  once  more  of  their  singing  down  the 
street. 

He  was  so  grateful  when  they  had  gone  that  the  cold 
perspiration  stood  in  beads  on  his  forehead,  for  he  was 
in  no  condition  to  go  through  a  scene  with  a  set  of 
hoodlums.  He  had  not  the  strength  to  reach  his  bed- 
room, and  he  lay  down  on  the  lounge.  He  had  for- 
gotten to  blow  out  the  flame  of  the  lamp,  but  it  would 
soon  go  out  of  itself,  for  the  oil  must  be  low.  The 
lounge  was  near  a  window,  and  he  managed  to  push  up 
the  shade  so  he  could  command  a  view  of  the  outside 
world  of  night.  The  excitement  and  depression  of  the 
day  had  been  too  great  a  strain,  in  his  weak  condition, 
and  brought  on  his  old  trouble  of  the  heart,  so  that  in 
[  202  I 


CHAPTER    FIFTEEN 

his  agony  it  seemed  to  him  his  life  was  torn  from  him. 
Never  had  he  known  such  pain ;  it  was  like  dissolution. 
When  it  at  last  left  him  he  felt  that  he  was  dying. 
This  roused  in  him  no  rebellion,  and  he  awaited  the  end 
calmly,  content  that  in  dying  he  might  look  to  the  last 
on  the  beautiful,  peaceful  desert.  One  wish  must  be 
left  ungranted,  and  that  was  his  desire  for  the  comfort 
of  Adele's  hand  in  his.  The  low-turned  lamp  was  be- 
ginning to  flicker.  He  saw  this  by  the  shadows  it  cast 
on  the  wall.  And  as  this  light  within  the  room  grew 
dimmer,  so  the  desert  air  outside  grew  bluer  and  more 
brilliant,  ever  encroaching,  until  its  radiance  alone 
should  fill  the  room.  It  seemed  to  him  that  the  flicker- 
ing lamp-flame  was  his  own  soul  going  out,  to  become 
absorbed  into  the  fathomless  blue  air  of  the  night. 
Poignant  as  fresh  pain  came  the  thought  of  Adele's 
anguish,  stabbing  his  peace.  For  her  sake,  he  must 
blow  out  that  lamp.  If  he  let  the  light  flicker  out  of 
itself,  he  would  die.  He  reached  the  desk  with 
strength  almost  delirious,  and  blew  out  the  flame. 

The  night  grew  grey ;  the  rose  of  dawn  was  aflame 
in  the  sky,  and  he  knew  that  he  still  lived.  The  morn- 
ing slipped  into  the  afternoon;  the  burning  sunshine 
poured  in  upon  him,  and  he  lay  with  his  arm  over  his 
eyes,  for  he  was  too  weak  to  rise  and  draw  the  shade 
down.  He  had  been  so  well  yesterday  that  he  had  told 
Mrs.  Burns  she  need  not  come,  that  he  might  be  down 
to  call  on  her  to  show  her  the  improvement  he  had 
[203] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

made,  and  so  he  lay  alone  all  day,  sleeping  fitfully. 
He  had  waking,  troubled  dreams,  not  of  his  wife,  but 
of  Miss  Armes,  in  which  she  ever  escaped  him  like  a 
mirage. 

It  was  Cozzens  who  came  late  in  the  afternoon,  and 
who,  when  he  found  the  door  locked  and  no  signs  of 
life,  hurried  around  the  house  and  entered  by  the 
back  door. 

Lispenard  saw  the  big  fellow,  and  knew  he  was 
saved.  He  put  out  his  hand  to  him  weakly.  "  Coz- 
zens," he  said  faintly,  "  Cozzens,"  as  if  the  very  name 
gave  strength. 

Cozzens  undressed  him  with  the  tenderness  of  a 
woman,  and  got  him  into  bed  and  slipped  his  powerful 
arm  around  his  shoulders  in  order  that  he  might  sit  up. 

"  And  take  a  nippy,"  said  the  great  fellow  cheer- 
fully, reaching  for  the  flask  in  his  hip-pocket. 

Lispenard  was  very  feeble,  but  he  knew  he  had 
passed  through  the  crisis.  "  I  don't  want  you  to  call 
that  solemn  fool,"  he  said,  when  he  was  able  to  talk. 
"  It  isn't  my  wound.  It  was  an  attack  of  my  old  trou- 
ble. I  overdid.  I  want  something  to  eat." 

And  a  little  later  he  added :  "  And  light  up  your 
cigar.  I  want  the  smell  of  tobacco  in  my  nostrils  once 
more,  and  to  have  you  read  the  paper  aloud." 

About  nine  o'clock  they  heard  a  knock  on  the  front 
door. 

"  Coming,"  called  Cozzens,  throwing  the  paper  he 
[204] 


CHAPTER    FIFTEEN 

was  reading  down  on  the  bed  and  seizing  the  lamp 
from  the  bureau. 

Lispenard,  left  in  darkness,  heard  him  explaining 
to  the  person  at  the  door  how  he  was. 

Then  he  heard  the  reply,  and  recognised  Miss 
Armes's  voice.  "  I  was  anxious  about  him,  and  when  I 
was  going  home  just  now  from  the  post-office  I  didn't 
see  any  light,  so  I  came  over  to  investigate.  I  thought 
he  looked  badly  yesterday  afternoon." 

He  was  not  proof  against  the  sting  of  this  fresh  hu- 
miliation. How  she  must  have  been  revolted  by  the 
unwelcome  kiss  of  a  sick  man !  He  turned  restlessly 
on  his  pillow,  wishing  she  would  go.  "  Vanity,  vanity, 
all  is  vanity,"  he  said,  and  scorned  himself  for  caring 
that  he  must  pay  the  price  in  mortification.  The  price 
was  so  little  for  such  a  priceless  self-revelation.  He 
might  well  be  thankful. 

Cozzens  was  asking  her  to  step  inside  a  moment, 
while  he  went  out  into  the  kitchen  to  get  a  cup.  The 
coffee  was  out,  and  he  wished  to  borrow  some  from  her 
for  breakfast.  As  he  went  into  the  dining  room  he 
told  her  that  she  could  go  to  the  bedroom  door  and 
speak  to  the  invalid  if  she  wished. 

"  I  might  disturb  him,"  she  said,  and  Lispenard, 
hearing,  was  amused.  Women  were  always  less  likely 
to  pass  over  scenes  of  sentiment  than  men. 

"  I  see  there's  a  letter  to  you  on  the  desk,"  said  Coz- 
zens, returning. 

[205] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

"  Oh,  thank  you !  "  she  answered.  "  I  suppose  it's 
a  note  Mrs.  Lispenard  must  have  enclosed  in  one  of 
her  letters  for  me.  I've  found  it." 

Cozzens  thrust  his  head  into  the  bedroom.  "  I'm 
going  across  the  street  with  Yucca  to  get  some  coffee 
for  breakfast.  I'll  be  back  right  away." 

Lispenard  was  smiling  in  the  darkness.  He  thought 
it  would  have  created  some  sensation  had  he  been  found 
dead,  and  on  his  desk  that  last  final  word  to  her.  Who 
of  the  living  could  read  it  right,  and  know  that  his 
hail  and  farewell  was  to  his  fancy,  and  not  to  the  real 
woman?  "  There  is  much  virtue  in  caution,"  he  told 
himself.  "  I  shall  write  no  more  poems  in  my  present 
condition  of  health." 

As  Cozzens  and  Miss  Armes  were  going  out  of  the 
gate  they  met  the  young  fellow  who  had  been  drunk 
the  night  before.  He  was  going  in,  when  the  big 
mine  owner  stopped  him. 

"  You  vamose  the  other  way.  We  don't  want  you 
around  here  any  more." 

The  two  walked  on.  Miss  Armes  glanced  back. 
"  He  is  still  standing  there  by  the  gate.  I  think  he 
must  wish  to  go  and  apologise  to  Mr.  Lispenard." 

Cozzens  turned  around  in  the  middle  of  the  road 
and  stared  back.  There  was  a  menace  implied  in  his 
powerful  figure,  his  absolute  silence.  The  young  fel- 
low hesitated,  then  went  away,  whistling  jauntily. 
"  It  takes  me  to  deal  with  a  Mexican,"  he  said,  in  his 
[206] 


CHAPTER    FIFTEEN 

husky,  pleasant  voice.  "  You  bet  they  don't  make 
their  whining  apologies  go  down  with  me.  I  rule 
»em." 

At  her  doorway  he  delayed  her  a  moment  that  he 
might  ask  her  again  to  marry  him,  and  she  repeated 
her  refusal.  His  scheme  of  existence  was  to  marry  her 
and  settle  down  near  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Lispenard  and  the 
two  boys.  An  engagement  of  indefinite  length  would 
have  pleased  him,  for  he  was  in  no  haste  to  marry. 
Like  a  sailor  he  had  a  sweetheart  in  every  port,  and  he 
was  at  present  engrossed  in  a  black-eyed  widow  at  the 
Capital.  He  was  tempted  to  marry  her,  but  he  felt  he 
could  never  trust  her  as  he  could  Yucca,  although  she 
attracted  him  the  more,  for  black  eyes  were  irresistible 
to  him,  doubly  so  because  he  thought  them  dangerous. 
He  was  secretive  with  Lispenard  in  regard  to  his  love 
affairs,  having  great  respect  for  the  cloth,  although 
his  friend  did  not  always  wear  it.  While  she  was  gone 
into  the  house  to  get  the  coffee  he  hummed  his  favour- 
ite Spanish  air. 

"  Yucca,"  he  said,  when  she  came  back,  "  Lispenard 
once  said  a  queer  thing  about  you  to  me — that  you 
were  like  the  desert." 

"  I?  "  she  said,  without  amazement. 

His  full  eyes  grew  speculative.  In  the  dusk  her 
face  looked  strange  to  him,  even  in  all  its  fa- 
miliarity of  feature.  "  I  declare,"  he  added  slowly, 
"  you  do.  I  can't  put  it  into  words,  but  it's 
[207] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

there.  The  desert's  in  you."  Fascination  crept  into 
his  gaze  for  the  first  time  in  all  the  years  he  had  known 
her.  He  attempted  to  kiss  her,  and  barely  touched  her 
cheek  with  his  lips. 

"  I  don't  want  you  ever  to  come  here  alone  again," 
she  said.  She  stood  still  for  some  time  when  he  had 
gone.  Yes,  she  was  like  the  desert,  the  barren 
desert,  which  had  no  beauty  in  itself,  but  caught  all 
by  reflection,  even  as  her  life  had  no  reality  of  experi- 
ence, but  fastened  on  dreams. 

She  went  into  the  house,  and  into  the  room  where 
her  father's  portrait  was,  and  stood  looking  up  at  the 
fierce  soldier,  with  his  eagle  eye  and  his  unquenchable 
pride.  He  was  the  one  reality  of  her  life.  And  he 
was  dead !  She  rubbed  the  back  of  her  hand  slowly 
with  her  handkerchief,  then  she  rubbed  her  cheek. 
Her  house  was  silent  and  she  went  into  the  court  where 
her  father  used  to  walk,  and  there  it  seemed  less  lonely 
to  her.  Some  creature  was  lapping  greedily,  as  only 
a  desert  animal  could,  at  the  fountain,  and  she  saw  its 
long  body  as  it  stood  on  its  hind  legs,  its  furry  pointed 
ears,  its  eyes  glistening  in  the  light  from  the  window. 
As  she  called  to  it,  it  ran  away.  She  was  not  fright- 
ened, but  went  to  see  how  it  had  made  its  way  in,  and 
found  that  old  Teresa  had  left  an  outer  door  leading 
into  the  court  open.  She  closed  it  and  went  quietly 
back  to  the  fountain.  She  remembered  a  story  she 
once  read  of  a  girl  who  had  been  reared  in  ignorance 
[208] 


CHAPTER    FIFTEEN 

of  death,  and  she  felt  in  a  strange  way  their  fates  were 
similar.  One  lost  the  preciousness  of  existence  be- 
cause she  did  not  know  why  it  should  be  prized, 
and  she  whose  life  had  been  made  all  beauty  seemed  to 
have  lost  reality.  She  shook  with  passionate  revolt. 
Who  loved  life  more  than  she,  and  with  all  her  pride 
longed  more  for  its  experiences?  She  thought  of 
Trent,  stern,  rugged,  unbeautiful,  and  felt  that  he 
had  pushed  her  from  him.  She  raised  her  arms  in 
half-embrace  and  let  them  fall  about  the  rim  of  the 
fountain.  The  stone  struck  chill  through  her  lace 
sleeves.  She  was  weeping.  Where  was  he  now  ?  And 
she,  shut  in  this  place  of  beauty — a  fairy  princess  in 
a  fairy  garden !  Who  would  believe  her  tears  could 
be  bitter? 

Lispenard's  recovery  was  slow  after  this  relapse,  and 
it  was  days  before  his  strength  fully  returned  to  him. 
Yet  he  was  thankful  for  the  weariness  and  pain.  For 
years  he  had  been  so  free  from  illness  that  he  felt  he 
had  lost  sympathy  with  sick  people.  He  saw,  too, 
that  he  had  all  the  weakness  of  over-scholarship,  and 
had  become  abstracted  and  impersonal.  He  decided 
to  do  more  active  work  and  get  himself  out  of  his  bad 
habit  of  over-thinking.  He  was  weary  of  books,  and 
wished  he  might  take  an  overship  at  the  mines  under 
Cozzens.  The  old  longing,  that  fairy  wish  to  live  sev- 
eral different  lives,  was  ever  in  him. 

Day  after  day  before  his  eyes  was  spread  the  won- 
[209] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

derful  panorama  of  the  desert.  His  love  for  it  was  the 
great  romance  of  his  life.  He  looked  to  it  now  for  in- 
spiration for  the  future. 

One  afternoon  that  thing  so  rare  that  its  coming 
seemed  a  miracle,  happened;  the  clouds,  so  brilliant, 
so  white  in  the  turquoise  depths  of  sky,  drew  together. 
The  desert  became  grey  as  the  sea  in  a  fog,  and  it 
rained.  He  got  up  from  his  bed  and  wrapped  himself 
in  his  dressing-gown,  and  seated  himself  in  front  of 
the  open  window.  The  mist  from  the  driving  rain 
blew  cool  upon  him.  It  carried  him  back  to  April 
nights  of  long  ago,  to  the  swimming-pool,  to  the  trill 
of  frogs  in  a  marshy  place,  to  the  puddles  on  the  side- 
walk beneath  his  own  bare  feet;  Adele's  face,  sweet 
and  wet  as  a  little  rose  in  the  rain,  and  their  first 
childish  kiss  in  the  old  barn  in  which  they  had  sought 
shelter.  Intense  emotion  ran  through  him.  From  all 
wistful  longings  for  the  beauty  of  the  East  he  had  de- 
liberately turned  for  years.  Now  these  homesick 
yearnings  flooded  his  spirit,  and  brought  him  nearer 
his  wife  in  sympathy.  His  philosophy  seemed  barren, 
compared  to  this  flooding  emotion  which  racked  him. 
So  far  his  life  had  been  a  failure.  He  had  not  even 
any  influence  over  the  poor  handful  of  people  which 
made  up  his  congregation.  They  accepted  him  with 
the  large  toleration  of  the  West,  and  admired  his 
learning,  but  they  left  him  alone,  save  when  his  offices 
in  the  church  demanded  his  presence.  The  rains  were 
[210] 


CHAPTER    FIFTEEN 

calling  him  East  once  more,  sounding  in  his  ears  with 
Adele's  voice.  He  could  hear  her  pleading  in  the  rain. 
,But  the  call  of  the  desert  was  mightier.  To  turn  his 
back  now  and  go  away  would  be  acceptance  of  defeat. 
It  was  here  that  he  would  wrest  his  victory,  and  in  his 
success  Adele  should  find  her  lost  happiness. 

For  years  to  come  would  the  rains  that  spring 
be  spoken  of  by  the  old  inhabitants  of  Sahuaro.  It 
seemed  as  if  the  clouds  kept  their  force  for  that  one 
place,  and  rolled  back  and  broke  over  the  little  town, 
and  rolled  and  broke  again  and  again.  The  streams 
rushing  down  the  mountains  carried  huge  boulders 
along,  and  then  the  water  lost  itself  in  the  choking 
sands,  and  was  vanquished  by  the  conquering  desert 
and  dropped  below  to  the  underground  rivers.  The 
toughest  roots  were  torn  up  and  carried  short  distances. 
The  water  rushed  into  an  arroyo  which,  to  the  memory 
of  the  oldest  inhabitant  of  Sahuaro,  had  never  been 
anything  but  a  shifting  bed  of  sand.  Haydon,  who 
spent  most  of  his  time  during  the  rain  up  in  the  little 
balcony,  looking  off  to  the  desert  through  a  field- 
glass,  was  first  to  notice  this  new  stream,  and  told  Miss 
Armes,who  had  come  down  to  the  depot  to  telegraph  to 
a  cousin  she  expected  to  postpone  her  visit  until  the 
rains  were  over.  The  glimpse  through  the  field-glass 
made  her  wild  with  excitement  to  go  nearer,  and  she 
hunted  up  Cozzens  and  persuaded  him  to  go  with  her. 
They  rode  straight  against  the  soft  and  misty  wind. 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

The  day  was  captious  as  April.  Now  a  shower  drenched 
them  to  the  skin,  and  they  were  delighted  as  children. 
Had  it  not  been  for  the  clinging  wet  sands,  they  could 
not  have  held  their  horses  in,  for  the  animals  were  as 
exhilarated  as  they. 

But  when  they  reached  the  boiling  pool  where  the 
stream  plunged  to  its  death  in  the  smothering  sands, 
the  glory  of  their  ride  departed.  The  water  had 
turned  up  the  skeletons  of  a  party  of  emigrants  who 
must  have  perished  long  ago.  They  saw  iron  imple- 
ments, and  a  kettle  of  past  date,  and  a  clumsy  waggon- 
wheel. 

They  sat  on  their  horses,  gazing  down  on  this  hid- 
eous revelation,  feeling  an  indescribable  woe.  Cozzens 
was  the  first  to  break  the  silence.  "  Poison,"  he  said 
briefly,  and,  turning  his  horse's  head,  told  her  to  come, 
and  they  rode  home  again  without  a  word. 

Where  the  dry  bed  was  there  had  once  been  a  spring 
of  bright,  sparkling  water,  and  the  fact  that  the  party 
had  all  perished  in  the  same  place  showed  they  had 
drunk  of  it,  unobservant  of  the  fact  that  nothing  grew 
about  it,  and  that  there  was  no  trace  of  animals  coming 
there  to  drink.  There  were  still  such  springs  on  tn*e 
desert,  and  it  was  to  the  honour  of  an  experienced 
traveller  over  the  trails  that  when  he  saw  such  a  stream 
he  stopped  and  scratched  or  wrote  on  a  board  or  stone 
the  word  Poison,  and  beneath,  a  second  explanatory 
word,  Arsenic,  and  erected  it  near  the  bright  water, 


CHAPTER    FIFTEEN 

with  infinite  pains,  bracing  it  with  stones  against  the 
dragging  sands. 

When  Lispenard  heard  of  the  discovery  he  insisted 
upon  going  to  the  place  the  next  morning,  weak 
though  he  was.  To  him  alone  the  sight  was  not  de- 
pressing. He  was  filled  with  sublimity,  and  the  mag- 
nificence of  the  prophecy  in  the  Bible  came  to  him 
afresh : 

"  And  the  sea  shall  give  up  its  dead." 

That  afternoon  the  old  mission  Roman  Catholic 
priest  went  out  with  his  Indian  converts  and  acolytes, 
and  buried  again  the  bones,  and  said  a  service  over  the 
grave,  and  piled  stones  on  it  in  the  form  of  a  cross. 

"  What  does  the  poor  body  matter  if  the  soul  is 
free?  "  said  Lispenard,  when  he  heard  of  the  proceed- 
ing. But,  nevertheless,  it  struck  him  as  peculiarly  fit- 
ting that  the  Indians,  sprung  from  the  first  inhabi- 
tants of  the  land  whose  treacherous  waters  had  killed 
their  alien  guests,  should  bury  them,  and  that  the 
service  should  be  that  of  the  first  church  established  in 
the  desert. 

And  through  it  all  he  waited  his  inspiration,  watch- 
ing the  leaden  sky  and  the  forlorn  desert  and  the 
crouching  mountains. 

The  skies  cleared,  and  the  miracle  of  the  rains  was 
revealed.  The  mesquite  and  grease-wood  spread  in 
wide  and  lovely  patches  of  silver-grey  and  the  candle- 
stick put  out  its  row  of  single,  little  green  leaves,  the 
[213] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

brightest  green  on  the  desert.  The  yucca  bore  its  tall 
bloom  of  pale  yellow  blossoms,  and  the  flower-of-gold, 
loved  by  the  Spaniards,  was  in  the  mountain  crevices. 
The  cacti  put  forth  gorgeous,  scentless  blossoms  in 
purple  and  such  scarlet  that  it  was  a  marvel.  Flowers 
appeared  which  had  not  been  seen  for  twenty  years. 
But  all  too  soon  the  sands  sucked  up  the  moisture,  and 
the  efflorescence  of  colour  and  bloom  vanished  in  the 
scorching  sunshine;  but  the  big  roots  underground 
were  natural  reservoirs,  and  animals  dug  at  them  and 
drank,  and  became  sleeker  and  lost  something  of  their 
fierceness. 

One  evening,  as  he  sat  watching  the  sunset,  its  long 
rays  reaching  across  the  level  sands  to  the  magnifi- 
cently rising  mountains,  he  thought  again  of  Miss 
Armes's  plan  of  a  university  which  should  rise  against 
the  eternal  splendour  of  that  sky.  It  seemed  to  him 
afterwards  that  he  must  have  had  a  moment  of  vision, 
for  he  saw  the  roofs  and  towers  and  long  colonnades 
against  that  glowing  orange  west. 

His  inspiration  had  come.    He  saw  his  work. 

Here  in  Sahuaro  should  rise  a  university,  anjj  in  it 
he  would  teach  young  men  those  ideals  he  loved. 

His  rejuvenescence  was  complete. 


CHAPTER    XVI 

DISILLUSIONMENT  in  regard  to  his  vast  for- 
tune had  already  fastened  upon  Cozzens.  His 
personal  habits  were  simple,  and  he  had  no  de- 
sire to  travel,  so  that  when  his  friend  proposed  he 
should  employ  his  riches  to  leaving  some  lasting  me- 
morial of  himself  to  his  town,  the  idea  was  instantly 
attractive.  But  he  protested  against  the  university 
project.  His  idea  was  to  build  a  splendid  church,  or 
a  librarv.  It  was  some  time  before  Lispenard  could 
convince  him  that  the  complete  university  should  em- 
brace both  of  these  features.  The  like  institution  in 
the  Capital  was  poor  and  struggling,  and  run  by  poli- 
tics, housed  in  a  few  shabby  buildings  ;  and  the  big 
mine  owner  had  no  desire  to  see  such  an  experiment 
repeated  in  the  town  he  loved. 

"  But  it  will  not  be  the  same,"  Lispenard  persuaded 
patiently.  "  It  is  because  that  has  not  the  free  spirit 
of  the  true  university  that  I  want  you  to  endow  one 
here."  He  pointed  out  to  him  the  suggested  beauty  in 
the  drawing  Miss  Armes  had  made,  and  Cozzens,  hav- 
ing, as  his  friend  always  said,  imagination,  if  not  cul- 
ture, sent  her  sketch  East  to  a  leading  firm  of  archi- 
tects to  be  developed  properly,  and  a  general  estimate 
given  of  the  cost. 

Lispenard  found  an  unexpected  ally  in  a  newcomer 
[215] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

to  Sahuaro.  The  miracles  of  the  rain  had  reached  the 
ever-attentive  ear  of  science,  and  the  government  at 
Washington  sent  a  man  to  investigate.  He  was  an  ex- 
perimental botanist  of  wide  reputation.  Like  all  schol- 
ars of  Jewish  extraction  who  have  once  turned  the  acu- 
men of  their  race  to  the  acquirement  of  knowledge,  he 
had  succeeded  brilliantly.  He  needed  an  assistant,  and 
Lispenard  offered  his  services,  glad  of  the  opportunity 
to  eke  out  his  meagre  salary.  This  Professor  Abend- 
roth,  black-bearded,  with  soft,  melancholy  brown  eyes 
beaming  behind  his  huge  gold-bowed  spectacles,  looked 
an  ascetic  and  a  dreamer.  In  reality,  he  was  an  enthu- 
siast, fond  of  fun  as  a  boy,  and  shrewd  as  Coz- 
zens  himself.  He  had  a  room  in  the  depot  to  sleep  in, 
and  rented  an  empty  adobe  rai»ch-house  for  an  experi- 
ment-station, where  he  kept  snakes  and  lizards  and  Gila 
monsters.  He  discovered  two  new  poisons,  and  his  joy 
was  unbounded.  Like  Trent,  he  experienced  the  sym- 
pathy and  hospitality  of  the  West,  and  found  gifts 
that  an  occasional  cowboy  left  at  the  depot  for  him  in 
Haydon's  care.  These  were  generally  some  rare  vari- 
ety of  plant,  a  tortoise,  and  once  a  tiny  box  of  living 
jewels,  the  beetles  that  hid  beneath  the  stones.  Abend- 
roth  confided  his  delight  at  these  attentions  to  Lis- 
penard. 

"  It  is  not  personal,  for  they  do  not  know  me.  It  is 
far  better.  It  is  a  tribute  to  their  government,  which 
I  represent." 

[216] 


CHAPTER    SIXTEEN 

While  he  was  there  Miss  Armes  had  a  guest  arrive 
to  spend  a  few  weeks  with  her,  and  the  two  visitors 
were  a  considerable  addition  to  the  limited  society  of 
Sahuaro. 

This  lady  was  a  cousin  of  Major  Armes,  and  the 
feminine  counterpart  of  the  portrait  of  him.  She  had 
been  too  selfish  to  take  any  real  interest  in  her  cousin's 
daughter,  but  she  visited  her  occasionally  when  it 
suited  her  own  pleasure  and  convenience.  Lispenard 
was  really  devoted  to  her ;  he  relished  her  cynicism  and 
found  her  scorn  of  his  own  profession  refreshing.  She 
invariably  informed  him  coolly  that  he  was  wasting 
his  life,  but  that  she  personally  was  not  in  the  least 
concerned.  She  was  the  product  of  nearly  seventy 
years  of  unbroken  health  and  spiritual  pride  and  finan- 
cial independence.  Neither  she  nor  Cozzens  had  any 
liking  for  each  other.  She  was  bored  by  him,  and  he 
on  his  part  told  Lispenard  that  she  didn't  meet  his 
idea  of  a  natural  old  lady. 

She  and  Miss  Armes  often  accompanied  the  two 
men  in  their  botanical  expeditions  into  the  desert, 
and  Mrs.  Holt  was  as  untiring  as  any  of  the  other 
three. 

Something  of  the  old  spirit  of  the  place  before 
Adele  went  away  was  restored,  and  the  four,  including 
Cozzens  when  he  was  at  home,  met  evenings  with  Miss 
Armes  to  sort  out  and  catalogue  the  specimens  col- 
lected during  the  day. 

[217] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

Abendroth  soon  discovered  that  his  hostess  was  the 
only  person  on  whom  he  could  depend  to  continue  the 
work  faithfully  into  the  evening  hours,  for  Lispenard 
and  Mrs.  Holt  invariably  drifted  into  conversation,  to 
which  Cozzens  listened,  smoking  his  heavy  black 
cigars  and  thrumming  the  mandolin  when  he  was  not 
jingling  the  loose  coin  in  his  pocket. 

But  he  generally  tired  of  Mrs.  Holt,  and  drew  up  to 
the  table.  His  own  hands,  considering  his  build,  were 
extremely  small,  but  Abendroth's  hands  were  large  and 
heavy,  yet  the  skill  and  delicacy  of  his  touch  was  re- 
markable, and  it  was  fascinating  to  see  him  separate 
a  flower  into  its  minutest  parts.  The  scientist  had 

opened  a  new  world  to  Cozzens.    He  knew  the  desert  in 
<^ 

its  bigness ;  he  had  never  before  formed  any  concep- 
tion of  its  infinitude  of  small  things. 

He  was  not  more  absorbed  than  Miss  Armes;  and 
Lispenard,  restored  to  strength  and  welling  humour, 
was  amused  at  the  depths  of  his  own  vanity  in  ever 
having  supposed  that  her  intellectual  interest  was  in- 
dicative of  faithfulness  to  him.  She  turned  the  same 
clear  gaze  he  had  once  thought  personal  upon  Abend- 
roth,  who  was  charmed  by  her,  and  wished  his  wife 
could  meet  her. 

Now  and  then  the  professor  entered  into  the  conver- 
sation of  the  others.  He  had  never  enjoyed  him- 
self more  in  his  life  than  on  the  desert.  He  liked 
the  people,  and  was  interested  in  the  Indians,  and 
[218] 


CHAPTER    SIXTEEN 

had  become  acquainted  with  the  old  mission  priest; 
the  flora  was  fascinating;  he  basked  in  the  sun- 
shine. 

"  There's  my  friend  at  home,"  he  said,  "  experi- 
menting with  electric  lights  and  yellow  walls  to  cure 
skin  diseases,  and  here's  all  this  glorious  sunshine  go- 
ing to  waste,  actually  oozing  into  the  ground,  day 
after  day,  and  few  getting  the  benefit  of  it.  Your  irri- 
gation projects  don't  appeal  to  me.  I  would  like  to  see 
the  desert  left  as  it  is,  the  health  resort  of  the  world. 
I  am  surprised  that  your  University  has  no  botan- 
ical laboratory.  It  has  a  good  mining  school,  I  ob- 
served, but  no  department  of  irrigation,  nor  chair  of 
Spanish.  How  are  your  young  men  going  to  learn  the 
value  of  their  own  environment?  A  university  should 
first  meet  its  home  needs." 

Cozzens,  thrumming  idly  on  the  .mandolin,  glanced 
up  shrewdly.  He  had  not  capitulated  to  Lispenard's 
urgent  persuasion,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  he  con- 
sented to  have  the  plans  drawn  up.  He  had  done  this 
to  please  him  and  Yucca,  in  much  the  spirit  he  would 
have  indulged  Jim  and  Tiggy.  He  would  let  them  go 
as  far  as  he  thought  wise,  and  was  not  unwilling  to  foot 
the  bill  of  the  extravagance  they  had  urged  him  into. 
He  intended  to  have  the  plans  framed  when  they  ar- 
rived, and  to  present  them  to  her. 

"  What  do  you  mean  that  a  desert  laboratory  would 
do?  All  this  sort  of  thing?  "  he  asked  in  his  husky 
[219] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

voice,  and  with  a  wave  of  his  hand  toward  the  cata- 
loguing. 

"  Much  more  than  that,"  Abendroth  answered, 
looking  at  him  over  his  heavy  gold-bowed  spectacles, 
and  forgetting  his  specimens  in  the  interest  he  took  in 
the  subject  he  had  opened;  "much  more  than  that, 
Mr.  Cozzens.  It  would  effect  the  permanent  better- 
ment of  the  human  race." 

"  How  ridiculous  !  "  cried  Mrs.  Holt.  "  These  sci- 
entists claim  everything.  Botany  was  not  made  so 
much  of  when  I  was  young,  any  more  than  dentistry. 
Look  at  me.  Every  tooth  in  my  head  is  sound,  and  I 
have  twice  the  strength  Yucca  has.  How  do  you  ac- 
count for  me?  " 

"  The  question  is  beyond  me,"  put  in  Lispenard, 
his  eyes  twinkling. 

"  Well,  pass  me  a  peppermint,"  she  said.  "  Go  on, 
Mr.  Abendroth.  Don't  act  so  like  a  schoolgirl,  Yucca. 
It  looks  simple  in  you.  If  you  haven't  your  education 
by  this  time,  I'd  conceal  the  fact."  She  smiled  at 
Lispenard,  appreciative  of  her  own  wit. 

Abendroth  was  waiting  patiently  until  she  should 
allow  him  to  continue.  "  For  instance,  Mr.  Cozzens," 
he  said,  "  my  school  holds  that  a  proper  regulation 
of  moisture  supply  is  essential  to  the  production  of 
high-quality  grains.  In  the  laboratory  where  I  con- 
duct my  experiments  in  Washington  I  have  made 
the  attempt  to  produce  conditions  of  aridity,  but  this 
[220] 


CHAPTER    SIXTEEN 

experience  here  only  serves  to  show  me  how  futile  the 
attempt  was.  You  can't  put  the  varied  conditions  of 
outdoor  life  into  a  glass  box.  If  my  time  were  unlim- 
ited, I  could  show  you  practically  just  what  I  mean. 
I  should  plant  various  grains,  and  try  the  effect  of  the 
varying  quantities  of  water,  and  also  more  or  less 
saline  water,  to  determine  the  nutritive  value  obtained 
by  more  or  less  moisture." 

"  I  like  that  idea,"  said  Cozzens ;  "  it's  practical." 

"  I  am  going  to  see  the  advisory  board  when  I  go 
home,  and  see  if  something  cannot  be  done  through  the 
Department  of  Agriculture  to  establish  a  desert  labo- 
ratory here  in  Sahuaro.  Even  when  we  protect  the 
ground  crops  from  actual  rain,  the  amount  of  moisture 
in  the  air  defeats  the  end  of  the  more  delicate  experi- 
ments." 

"  I  thought  you  said  such  a  laboratory  was  needed 
in  the  University,  instead  of  here,"  Cozzens  said,  puz- 
zled. 

"  Better  transfer  the  site  of  the  university  here," 
answered  Abendroth,  only  half  serious,  and  unaware 
of  the  appeal  which  had  been  made  to  the  big  mine 
owner.  "  I  don't  think  it  could  do  worse  than  in  the 
present  buildings,  and  here  is  the  purest  condition  of 
aridity  for  laboratory  work." 

"  Well,  come,  let  us  have  a  little  music  now,"  pro- 
posed Mrs.  Holt.  "  Go  ahead,  Yucca,  and  light  the 
fire  in  the  other  room,  where  the  piano  is.  If  I'm  cold 
[221  ] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

I  don't  pretend  to  enjoy  anyone's  playing,  I  don't 
care  who  it  is.  This  tampering  with  nature,"  she 
added  in  an  aside  to  Lispenard,  whom  she  made  her 
crony,  "  is  ridiculous.  Leave  things  to  the  Lord.  I've 
done  so  all  my  life." 

"  Even  to  your  religion,"  he  rejoined  slyly. 

"  It  couldn't  be  in  safer  hands,"  she  retorted. 
"  The  major  always  advised  me  to  attend  the  Episco- 
pal church,  for  he  said  it  wouldn't  interfere  with  either 
my  politics  or  my  religion."  She  enjoyed  the  little 
fling  at  him,  and  went  chuckling  down  the  hall  to  the 
parlour,  where  her  cousin  had  hastened  to  light 
the  fire. 

Abendroth  remained  only  long  enough  to  have  a 
cigar  and  a  glass  of  wine,  and  hear  a  little  of  the 
music;  then  he  took  his  departure.  He  had  further 
work  to  do  before  he  went  to  bed,  and  he  always  wrote 
a  detailed  account  of  the  day's  adventure  to  his  wife, 
who  was  an  invalid.  This  night,  however,  he  was  not 
allowed  the  rest  of  his  evening.  Cozzens  was  insistent 
that  both  he  and  Lispenard  should  come  up  to  his 
room  above  the  bank  building  for  a  talk. 

The  evening  had  convinced  the  frontiersman  that 
there  might  be  something  in  the  proposed  university, 
after  all.  He  admired  Lispenard  none  the  less  because 
he  respected  Abendroth's  judgment  the  more.  He 
had  the  greatest  confidence  in  the  practical  genius  of 
the  Jews. 

F 

[ 


CHAPTER    SIXTEEN 

"  Of  course,"  said  Cozzens,  after  he  explained 
why  he  wished  to  see  them  both,  "  it  has  been  in  my 
mind  to  build  a  church." 

Abendroth,  when  he  saw  the  value  his  words  might 
really  have,  brought  a  perfect  avalanche  of  arguments 
to  bear  upon  Cozzens's  indecision.  Where  would  he 
find  in  the  town  the  congregation  to  fill  a  denomina- 
tional church?  But  a  university  would  be  the  magnet 
to  draw  people  from  all  over  the  Territory,  if  not  from 
the  East  itself.  But  it  was  not  until  he  showed  that 
politics  must  enter  into  the  scheme  if  the  site  were  to  be 
changed,  that  Cozzens  really  gave  in.  He  had  mixed 
much  in  politics,  and  the  idea  fascinated  him  at 
once.  He  felt  budding  within  himself  a  new  and  ex- 
panding interest.  Lispenard  had  placed  the  ideal  side 
before  him,  but  it  was  the  acumen  of  the  Jewish  sci- 
entist which  suddenly  made  practical  Yucca's  dream 
of  beauty. 

Abendroth's  soft,  melancholy  brown  eyes  glowed 
behind  his  spectacles,  and  he  kept  passing  his  large, 
sensitive  hand  nervously  over  his  black  beard  as  he 
talked. 

The  three  finally  parted  at  midnight,  and  Lispenard 
walked  home  alone,  almost  dizzy  with  his  solemn  happi- 
ness. He  had  gone  out  without  locking  the  door,  and 
he  had  no  sooner  crossed  the  threshold  than  he  had  an 
instinct  that  there  was  someone  else  in  the  house.  He 
dismissed  the  idea  as  absurd,  but  yet  he  could  not  rid 
[223] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

himself  of  this  feeling  of  a  second  person  in  the  house 
with  him.  He  lighted  the  lamp  on  his  desk,  and  looked 
around  the  large  room.  It  was  undisturbed.  Some 
small  change  he  had  left  on  the  tray  which  held  his 
pens  and  sealing-wax  was  still  there.  His  nervous- 
ness was  mortifying  to  him,  for  it  was  making  out  of 
his  home  a  place  which  creaked  and  whispered.  He 
decided  not  to  go  to  bed  immediately,  but  to  write  to 
his  wife.  The  natural  longing  of  the  man  in  him 
found  vent  at  last  and  he  begged  her  to  come  home 
to  him.  He  wanted  her  to  share  with  him  the  joy 
of  having  such  a  man  as  Abendroth  with  them,  and  he 
desired  the  sweetness  of  her  sympathy  in  the  uni- 
versity project.  Twice,  while  writing,  he  laid  down 
his  pen  and  looked  around,  thinking  that  someone 
stood  behind  him.  At  last  he  rose  and  went  into  the 
next  room,  as  though  drawn  irresistibly. 

Adele  lay  on  the  bed  asleep.  One  hand  was  under 
her  cheek;  her  dusky  hair  was  disordered  and  her 
little  travelling  hat  and  veil  were  tossed  on  the  bed  be- 
side her.  She  had  not  changed  her  black  gown,  and 
her  valise  was  on  the  floor.  She  looked  like  some 
stranger  who  had  crept  into  a  deserted  house  to  rest 
a  while  before  continuing  her  way.  He  saw  her  quite 
distinctly,  although  the  only  light  was  that  which 
came  from  the  adjoining  room.  He  longed  to  kiss  her, 
but  dared  not,  as  though  the  silence  were  of  her  own 
choosing  and  he  must  not  break  it.  His  heart  was 


CHAPTER    SIXTEEN 

beating  heavily.  Yet  as  he  hesitated  she  woke  with 
a  start  and  rose  quickly  to  her  feet,  staring  at  him  in 
the  maze  of  the  half-awakened  sleeper. 

"  Have  you  come  back  to  me?  "  he  said.  "  Oh, 
Adele,  Adele ! " 

In  the  dimness  of  their  room  she  was  in  his  arms, 
sobbing  with  joy. 

At  last  he  drew  her  out  into  the  lamplight  of  the 
other  room,  that  he  might  see  her  better. 

"  This  isn't  my  wife.  This  is  some  girl,"  he  in- 
sisted. 

Her  colour  rose  with  her  delight.  Then  suddenly 
she  had  both  hands  on  his  shoulders,  and  was  crying 
out :  "  Theodore,  you  have  been  ill !  " 

It  was  long  before  he  could  convince  her  of  his  pres- 
ent health.  He  said  nothing  of  the  fight  at  Campi's, 
but  reserved  the  tale  for  some  future  time.  He  wished 
now  only  to  hear  of  her. 

"  Why  did  you  not  come  for  me  ?  "  he  asked.  "  I 
was  only  across  the  street." 

"  I  thought  so,"  she  answered ;  "  but  I  was  afraid." 

"  Afraid !  "  he  echoed. 

"  Why,  yes,  dear ;  because  of  that  five  hundred  dol- 
lars I  took.  I  started  home  from  Southbury  in  such 
good  spirits,  and  was  so  eager  to  meet  you ;  and  then, 
all  at  once,  I  realised  what  an  awful  thing  I  did  when  I 
asked  Jarvis  Trent  for  that  money." 

"  Nonsense,"  he  said. 

[225] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

"  And  the  nearer  home  I  got,  the  bigger  that  five 
hundred  dollars  grew,  until  I  was  sure  everyone  in 
Sahuaro  must  know  about  it.  You  know  how  things' 
do  leak  out.  No  one  saw  me  when  I  got  out  with  the 
other  passengers.  I  hurried  home,  and  found  you 
away,  and  the  house  was  dark,  and  it  seemed  to  me  I 
wasn't  welcome." 

"  Do  you  want  to  make  your  old  Theodore  cry?  " 
he  asked. 

"  I  waited  in  the  dark  such  a  long  time,  and  then 
lay  down  for  a  little  while,  I  was  so  tired.  I  thought  I 
could  go  back  to  the  boys  if  you  didn't  want  me,"  she 
ended  timidly. 

He  thought  how  she  had  lain  on  the  bed,  still  in  her 
travelling  dress,  her  hat  and  veil  near  by,  as  if  she 
were  a  stranger  who  had  crept  into  an  empty  house 
to  sleep  before  continuing  the  journey.  He  saw  the 
pathos  of  her  departure,  the  still  deeper  pathos  of  her 
unwelcomed  return  into  the  dark  house.  He  rose  and 
brought  her  the  letter  he  had  commenced.  "  It  is 
finished  now,  and  delivered,  my  dearest,"  he  said  sol- 
emnly. "  I  don't  believe  any  woman  ever  answered  a 
summons  home  sooner." 

She  read  it  through  with  delight.  "  I  knew  you 
wanted  me,  even  if  I  did  borrow  that  five  hundred  dol- 
lars," she  said,  then  glanced  at  the  letter  again,  and 
added :  "  You  don't  mean  to  say  that  horrid  old  Mrs. 
Holt  is  visiting  Yucca  Armes.  I  wouldn't  have  missed 


CHAPTER    SIXTEEN 

seeing  her  for  worlds.  I  can  actually  get  a  whiff  of 
her  peppermints  here  across  the  street." 

While  she  prepared  supper,  scolding  a  little  about 
the  condition  of  the  kitchen,  as  he  knew  she  would,  he 
told  her  of  the  evening's  great  event,  but  she  was  too 
absorbed  in  the  happiness  of  their  reunion  to  appre- 
ciate fully  what  he  was  saying. 

"  I  didn't  think  I  would  tell  you  at  first,  but  I  guess 
I  will,"  she  said.  "  I  don't  like  Southbury  any  more. 
Oh,  it  was  awful !  Everyone  seemed  so  timid  to  me, 
and  afraid  to  speak  his  mind,  unless  it  was  a  moral 
question  on  which  they  all  agreed ;  and  they  kept  ask- 
ing me  if  I  weren't  glad  to  get  back  to  Southbury,  and 
never  cared  to  hear  about  the  West  at  all.  And  every- 
one was  so  rich  and  stupid." 

"  I  suppose  they  told  you  how  refined  they  all  were 
in  making  no  vulgar  display  of  their  money,  didn't 
they ;  and  how  much  they  did  for  charity  ?  "  sug- 
gested Lispenard,  his  eyes  twinkling.  "  I  know 
them." 

"  It  was  really  because  they  were  so  stingy ;  and 
they  were  so  inhospitable,  except  in  a  most  formal 
way.  But  the  worst  of  all  was  that  they  bored  me,  and 
I  was  wild  to  get  home,"  she  said. 

She  was  proud  to  tell  him  how  well  the  boys  were 
doing  in  the  school,  and  how  fond  their  uncle  was  of 
them;  and  as  she,  in  all  the  pretty  excitement  of  her 
return,  sat  opposite  him  at  the  table  where  they  had 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

their  little  supper,  he  realised  that  he,  too,  was  at  home 
once  more. 

As  she  talked  her  dimples  went,  and  her  mouth 
drooped. 

"  What  is  it,  dearest?  "  he  asked  tenderly. 

She  had  not  meant  to  say  a  word ;  now  she  could  not 
restrain  herself.  "  I  miss  the  children,"  she  said.  But 
she  did  not  tell  him,  too,  that  the  sting  in  her  grief 
was  his  failure  to  miss  them  as  well.  Her  home-com- 
ing should  not  seem  a  real  home-coming  without  them. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

TWO  years  had  passed  since  that  eventful  even- 
ing when  Abendroth  persuaded  Cozzens  of 
the  practical  wisdom  and  beauty  of  placing  a 
university  in  Sahuaro.  The  Legislature,  in  consid- 
eration of  the  endowment  that  was  promised,  voted 
to  change  the  site  of  the  University  as  soon  as  the 
new  buildings  should  be  ready  for  occupancy.  The 
plans  which  were  made  followed  along  the  lines  sug- 
gested by  the  drawing  Yucca  had  shown  to  Lispenard 
on  that  long-past  afternoon  in  her  garden.  The 
buildings  were  to  have  long  corridors  facing  a  large 
court,  and  the  chapel  was  to  be  at  the  head  of  the  main 
entrance  to  the  university.  The  architectural  form 
was  in  the  purest  mission  style,  and  nothing  could 
have  been  chosen  which  would  blend  more  perfectly 
with  the  peculiar  landscape.  Its  massive  style  fitted 
in  with  the  mountainous  background.  Yucca  refused 
to  accept  the  water-colour  drawing  of  the  plans. 

"  I  want  you  to  hang  them  in  your  own  office,"  she 
told  him ;  "  that  is  the  proper  place  for  them." 

He   hung   them   instead   in   his   bedroom,   for  he 
couldn't  bear  to  conduct  business  with  these  plans  be- 
fore his  eyes.     From  a   financial    standpoint,    it   was 
scarcely  reasonable  that  he  should  spend  the  greater 
[229] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

part  of  his  life  wresting  a  vast  fortune  from  the  State 
only  to  give  it  back  again.  The  framed  plans  hung 
on  the  bare  walls  of  his  bedroom,  and  he  used  to  sit 
quiet  a  little  while  after  he  came  in  evenings,  studying 
them  out,  smoking  one  of  his  black  cigars  and  finger- 
ing over  the  gold  eagles  in  his  trousers  pocket.  At 
first  he  was  impatient  over  the  years  which  must  elapse 
before  the  buildings  would  be  completed,  but  by  de- 
grees the  vastness  of  the  work  won  upon  his  imagina- 
tion, and  he  felt  the  appeal  which  the  building  of  a 
cathedral  must  make  to  those  at  work  upon  it,  al- 
though they  would  never  see  it  finished.  Mingling 
with  the  grandeur  of  the  conception  was  a  tenderer 
emotion  which  he  never  expressed  to  anyone.  That 
university  was  being  erected  for  Jim  and  Tiggy, 
whose  photographs  remained  unchangingly  on  his  bu- 
reau. 

He  dug  the  first  spadeful  of  earth  on  the  site  they 
selected,  embarrassed  by  the  cheering  of  his  townsmen, 
and  when  the  first  building  began  to  rise  his  content 
and  importance  knew  no  bounds.  Every  evening  he 
strolled  over  to  note  the  progress  of  the  day,  and  when 
he  was  away  and  came  back  he  was  always  amazed  to 
see  how  little  had  been  done  in  his  absence,  and  swore 
frightfully.  The  Agricultural  Department  at  Wash- 
ington had  pigeon-holed  Abendroth's  appeal  for  a 
desert  laboratory,  and  Cozzens  determined  to  put  it  up 
himself  after  a  while. 

[230] 


CHAPTER    SEVENTEEN 

"  I  am  building  my  castles  in  Spain  right  on  my  own 
land,"  he  would  say,  bringing  his  powerful  fist  down 
on  the  desk  in  his  office.  Sometimes  he  made  excuse  to 
open  the  door  into  his  bedroom,  which  adjoined,  and 
show  the  plans  to  whosoever  came  up  to  conduct  busi- 
ness with  him. 

He  liked  to  point  out  the  delicacy  of  the  water- 
colour  tinting,  the  vividness  the  red-tiled  roofs  would 
give,  and  the  effect  of  the  long  colonnades  about 
the  court.  The  bond  of  sympathy  deepened  be- 
tween him  and  Lispenard  during  these  two  years,  and 
many  a  time  the  thought  occurred  to  the  younger  man 
that  the  greatest  man  the  university  would  ever  know 
was  its  builder.  Not  the  wisest  in  point  of  scholarship, 
but  great  as  the  makers  of  a  land  are  great. 

These  two  years  were  the  happiest  in  Mrs.  Lispen- 
ard's  life,  notwithstanding  the  fact  that  both  of  her 
children  were  away.  Her  husband  had  ceased  to  be 
pathetic  to  her.  Pride  in  him,  that  glory  of  a  wife, 
was  hers  at  last.  Lispenard's  book  had  gone  a  weary 
round  of  publishers,  and  he  finally  ventured  to  send 
it  to  one  of  the  richest  and  most  influential  houses, 
in  sheer  desperation.  Nothing  could  have  amazed  him 
more  than  did  their  acceptance  of  the  manuscript,  and 
it  was  published  early  in  the  second  year.  His  success 
surprised  them  all.  The  reviews  were  so  excellent  that 
the  publishers  decided  to  bring  out  an  English  edition. 
Jarvis  Trent  wrote  to  him  his  most  prized  letter  of  con- 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

gratulation.  Trent  forgot  the  hurt  about  the  cheque 
made  out  by  Cozzens  which  Lispenard  had  given  him, 
in  the  newborn  warmth  of  his  feeling  over  his  friend's 
success.  He  sent  him  a  subscription  to  a  clipping 
bureau,  and  wrote  that  he  had  taken  out  a  second  sub- 
scription himself,  that  he  might  not  miss  any  of  the 
reviews. 

"  Trent  was  always  the  best  and  most  loyal  fellow  in 
the  world,"  cried  Lispenard,  touched  by  the  letter. 

"  Is  this  his  handwriting  ?  "  asked  Miss  Armes,  who 
happened  to  be  in  the  room  when  he  read  it.  She 
picked  up  the  envelope  and  glanced  at  the  address. 

"  Yes,"  he  said.  "  Would  you  like  to  hear  the  re- 
view which  he  enclosed  from  the  Press?  " 

As  he  read,  Mrs.  Lispenard  happened  to  look  up 
dud  saw  her  guest's  eyes  fixed  upon  her  husband's  un- 
conscious face  with  such  a  look  of  passionate  wistful- 
ness  that  her  own  heart  almost  stopped  beating  for  a 
moment,  as  if  something  she  had  long  dreaded  had 
actually  come  to  pass  at  last. 

Lispenard  put  down  the  review  with  a  sigh  of  hu- 
mourous regret.  "  All  good  things  must  end,"  he  said 
pleasantly.  "  I  would  it  were  longer." 

"  You  are  getting  very  vain,"  Adele  told  him.  She 
stopped  sewing,  for  her  fingers  were  trembling. 
Months  had  passed  without  any  stirring  of  the  old 
jealousy.  Now,  all  in  a  brief  moment,  it  flamed  up 
more  fiercely  than  ever. 


CHAPTER    SEVENTEEN 

Miss  Armes  laid  down  the  envelope  she  had  been 
holding,  and  rose.  "  I  must  go.  I  am  really  tired.  I 
think  I  walked  too  far  this  afternoon."  She  had  not 
seen  either  of  them  at  the  post-office,  and  so  had 
brought  up  their  mail  along  with  hers.  "  It  is  so  early, 
Mr.  Lispenard,  that  I  shan't  want  you  to  go  home  with 
me." 

"  She  is  afraid  to  trust  herself  alone  with  him," 
Adele  thought  bitterly,  and  she  said  good-night  to 
her  without  meeting  her  eyes.  When  she  was  once 
more  alone  with  her  husband  her  tragic  mood  found 
expression.  "  Sometimes,  Theodore,  I  have  been 
afraid  our  happiness  is  too  perfect  to  last.  I  know 
you  think  me  foolish,  but ' 

"  But  what  ?  "  he  asked,  as  she  hesitated. 

She  was  ashamed  to  say. 

"  No  one  can  take  your  heaven  from  you,"  he  added, 
with  his  subtle  and  delicate  smile ;  "  you  hold  it  in 
yourself."  And  after  a  moment  he  continued :  "  Some- 
times I  think  that  if  either  of  us  had  thought  we  were 
going  to  die,  we  would  have  been  eager  to  say  much, 
to  exact  promises " 

"  No,  dear,"  she  interrupted,  with  simple  jus- 
tice ;  "  you  never  would  have  exacted  promises,  but 
I  would  have.  You  were  larger  than  I,  Theo- 
dore." 

"  That  was  because  you  loved  more,"  he  hastened 
to  answer ;  then  caught  himself  up,  laughing.  "  Oh ! 
[233] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

what  have  I  said  ?  I  meant  only  to  be  gallant ;  that  it 
was  I  who  always  loved  you  the  more." 

"  Now  you  take  all  the  credit,"  she  retorted,  her 
dimples  showing  again.  She  could  not  long  remain 
sullenly  jealous.  Her  nature  was  too  happy.  "  What 
did  you  start  to  say  ?  " 

"  That  we  would  have  been  eager  to  exact  promises 
and  assurances,  but  now  I  feel  we  have  reached  that 
perfect  understanding  which  needs  no  words." 

It  was  her  lover  speaking. 

Lispenard  looked  forward  to  the  establishment  of 
the  university  at  Sahuaro  as  to  his  emancipation.  A 
chair  of  philosophy  was  endowed  by  Cozzens,  and  he 
was  to  fill  it;  and  he  looked  forward  to  the  practical 
fulfilment  of  his  ideal,  which  was  the  teaching  of  young 
men.  He  hoped  to  instruct  them  that  the  true  Church 
should  be  a  higher  university,  where  mature  men  could 
embrace  the  deep  philosophy  of  their  own  age,  after 
the  preparation  their  college  had  given  them  in  study 
of  the  wisdom  of  the  ancients.  If  they  would  find  the 
teaching  of  the  classics  of  permanent  value  in  their 
lives,  they  must  ever  be  unwilling  to  leave  them  when 
the  doors  of  their  alma  mater  closed.  He  offered  to 
prepare  young  men  for  college,  and  three  pupils  ac- 
cepted his  invitation.  One  was  an  Indian,  docile  to 
learn  and  reciting,  parrot-like,  the  faulty  Latin 
taught  him  by  the  old  mission  priest,  who  had  adopted 
him  as  a  son,  and  whose  darling  he  was.  Another  was 


CHAPTER    SEVENTEEN 

a  young  man  in  his  own  parish,  illiterate,  but  of  sound 
judgment  and  dogged  perseverance;  and  the  third 
was  a  lad  who  had  been  sent  West  for  his 
health.  He  had  traditions  of  greater  culture  than 
Lispenard's  parishoner,  but  he  had  less  vigour.  His 
association  with  these  young  men  awakened  in  him  his 
first  real  longing  to  see  his  own  sons.  He  saw  almost 
too  clearly,  for  inspiration  to  teach  them,  the  limita- 
tions of  the  former :  the  Indian,  bound  by  the  religious 
tenets  of  the  Roman  Catholic  Church ;  the  calculation 
for  material  success  as  the  reward  of  intellectual  labour 
in  his  second  pupil ;  but  this  last  was  more  endurable 
to  him  than  the  intellectual  thinness  of  the  third 
student.  His  pride  was  touched  by  the  quality  of  his 
own  sons,  as  it  was  revealed  in  their  letters  home,  and 
he  began  to  see  that  they  might  comprehend  his  ideals 
more  than  many  others. 

He  thought,  with  mingled  humour  and  contrition, 
that  his  affection  followed  the  inductive  system;  he 
was  enthusiastic  for  many  young  men  before  that  en- 
thusiasm centred  in  love,  quick  and  personal,  for  his 
own  children.  The  prospective  removal  of  the  site  of 
the  University  had  been  widely  advertised  through  the 
beauty  of  the  plans,  and  also  his  book;  for  his  pub- 
lishers had  stated  that  he  was  to  have  the  chair  of 
philosophy. 

The  great  romance  of  his  life  remained — his  pas- 
sion for  the  desert.  To  its  influence  he  attributed  the 
[235] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

amazing  success  of  his  book.  He  knew  that  his  phi- 
losophy was  creative;  he  had  caught  the  boldness  of 
the  desert;  the  critics  remarked  a  kind  of  radiance  in 
his  pages;  they  were  written  in  a  land  of  sunshine: 
many  reviews  spoke  of  the  force  in  the  book;  it  was 
due  to  the  eternal  struggle  for  existence  in  that  coun- 
try, for  only  by  fighting  his  environment  had  he  main- 
tained his  intellectual  interests ;  the  charm  of  the  style 
was  said  to  be  a  fault  in  that  it  distracted  the  reader 
from  the  sense;  did  not  mirages  invite,  and  beauty 
which  had  no  substance  weave  illusions  in  the  des- 
ert air? 

He  had  something  of  the  poet  in  him,  but  he  was 
most  a  philosopher ;  and  he  believed  that  when  the  in- 
ventive genius  of  his  country  had  exhausted  its  possi- 
bilities the  mind  of  the  people  would  turn  to  a  deeper 
study  of  the  soul.  His  passion  for  Miss  Armes  had 
never  returned,  but  her  undeniable  beauty  made  the 
eternal  appeal  of  perfection. 

The  bond  of  loving  sympathy  strengthened  between 
him  and  Adele. 

"  You  keep  me  sane  and  wholesome,"  he  told  her, 
and  added  merrily,  "  a  proper  family  man,  buying 
shoes  and  school-books.  Never  regret  that  you  left 
me,  but  think  of  the  lesson  I  learned  through  your 
absence." 

"  My  going  did  not  change  you,"  she  said  humbly ; 
"  I  should  love  to  think  that  it  did — that  I  could  have 
[236] 


CHAPTER    SEVENTEEN 

influenced  you  so  much ;  but  your  book  was  written  be- 
fore I  went."  She  would  not  judge  except  by  worldly 
success  or  failure. 

He  took  her  hand.  "  My  dear  wife,  you  will  never 
know  what  I  mean  when  I  say  that  you  are  moral  and  I 
naturally  unmoral,  and  that  I  am  trying  very  humbly 
to  learn  of  you." 

She  stopped  him  with  a  kiss.  "  I  am  not  nearly  as 
good  as  you,  Theodore.  It  makes  me  indignant  to  hear 
you  say  such  things  about  yourself.  Yes,  it  does,  dear. 
I  mean  it." 

"  Didn't  I  say  you  would  not  understand  ?  "  he  in- 
sisted charmingly. 

Content  as  he  was  with  her  and  his  work,  the  long- 
ing for  his  sons'  return  increased  within  him.  Adele's 
love  for  them  was  desire  for  their  welfare  and  her  own 
happiness  in  them,  but  he  was  eager  to  have  them  for- 
ward his  ideals. 

Jim's  letters  were  sturdy,  exact,  and  always  enthu- 
siastic. "  There  is  no  quality  I  prize  more  than  en- 
thusiasm," Lispenard  would  say.  "  It  is  youth 
itself." 

He  laughed  over  his  younger  son's  occasional,  vari- 
able letters.  "  Tiggy  has  no  enthusiasm,"  he  said, 
"  but  he  has  personal  genius,  and  that  is  the  gift  of 
the  gods." 

Both  of  the  boys  wrote  naively  of  their  pride  in  the 
notice  their  father's  book  excited.  At  the  bottom  of 
[237] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

each  of  Jim's  letters  was  a  conscientious  postscript, 
telling  the  number  of  pages  he  had  read  since  last  writ- 
ing, but  Tiggy  wrote  triumphantly  that  he  read  the 
whole  book  through  in  one  evening  before  bedtime. 
Their  school  closed  about  the  middle  of  June,  but  Mrs. 
Lispenard  did  not  know  the  exact  date  on  which  they 
would  arrive.  She  had  written  to  her  brother  not  to 
tell  her  when  they  were  to  start,  for  she  would  worry 
all  the  time  they  would  be  on  the  train.  Nothing  she 
had  ever  done  had  amused  Cozzens  and  her  husband 
more  than  this  determination  on  her  part. 

"  She  keeps  us  absolutely  unsettled  by  it,"  Lispen- 
ard confided,  in  a  burst  of  laughter,  to  his  friend,  as 
the  two  men  sat  alone.  "  If  I  knew  when  the  boys  were 
expected,  I  could  compose  myself  to  work  evenings  un- 
til the  very  hour  of  their  arrival.  But  now  she  wants 
us  to  be  hanging  around  the  plaza  every  night  for  a 
week." 

"  She's  as  young  as  Jim,"  answered  Cozzens,  in  his 
husky,  velvety  voice.  "  She's  got  to  have  something 
to  amuse  her." 

Mrs.  Lispenard,  finding  that  neither  of  the  two  men 
was  inclined  to  yield  to  her  persuasions  to  meet  the 
train  every  night,  sought  Yucca  for  companionship, 
and  took  her  down  to  the  plaza  with  her.  She  dressed 
herself  in  her  prettiest  gown,  and  started  out  every 
evening  after  supper,  in  the  gayest  spirits,  to  call  for 
her  friend.  She  might  have  been  a  girl  going  to  meet 
[238] 


CHAPTER    SEVENTEEN 

her  lover.  Her  jealousy  of  her  companion  was  always 
spasmodic,  and  Yucca  was  restored  to  her  fullest  confi- 
dence and  affection  once  more.  She  made  no  secret  of 
her  anticipation  of  the  coming  winter,  when  the  chang- 
ing of  the  University  to  Sahuaro  would  bring  more 
society  into  the  little  town. 

Lispenard  noticed  that  wherever  his  wife  went  she 
brought  brightness.  She  was  not  particularly  inter- 
ested in  the  second  book  he  was  writing,  and  she  quite 
neglected  him  in  her  absorption  over  the  boys'  home- 
coming; but  if  ever  anyone  were  her  own  excuse  for 
being,  surely  Adele  was  that. 

Although  it  was  early  June,  the  summer  was  over  in 
the  desert,  which  lay  scorched  and  brown  to  the  sun's 
hot  rays.  Even  the  cacti  and  mesquite  looked  parched, 
and  the  sunsets  were  gorgeous  because  of  the  heat  and 
the  constant  dust  in  the  air. 

"  I  have  a  feeling  they  may  have  started  early,  be- 
fore the  school  closed,  and  will  be  here  to-night,"  Mrs. 
Lispenard  remarked  as  they  went  down  together  one 
evening.  For  all  the  heat  of  the  day,  the  twilight  was 
cool,  and  Miss  Armes  had  drawn  about  her  shoulders  a 
pale  pink  shawl. 

"  I  have  not  seen  you  wear  that  for  a  long  time," 
said  her  friend.  "  Blue  is  lovely  on  you,  but  I  think  I 
like  pink  best." 

She  smiled. 

"  I  know  you  don't  care,"  Adele  continued ;  "  and 
[239] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

that's  why  you  irritate  me  so.  It  makes  you  too  supe- 
rior not  to  care  that  you  are  beautiful." 

"  I  do  not  know  that  it  has  ever  availed  me  much," 
Miss  Armes  answered,  her  hand  slipped  through  her 
companion's  arm ;  but  the  words  were  not  uttered  with 
either  bitterness  or  resentment.  Though  the  air  was 
cool,  and  she  had  brought  her  shawl,  the  sleeves  of  her 
thin  white  gown  ended  just  above  the  elbows. 

They  reached  the  plaza  as  the  Overland  rushed  into 
the  station,  and  Mrs.  Lispenard  hurried  forward.  The 
boys  were  not  on  the  train,  and  she  looked  around  for 
Miss  Armes,  to  join  her  again.  But  she  had  disap- 
peared. She  went  over  to  the  post-office  and  waited 
until  the  mail  was  distributed ;  then  went  back  to  the 
depot  again  and  asked  Haydon  if  he  had  seen  her. 

"  How  queer  for  her  to  run  away  from  me ! "  she 
said. 

Haydon  was  mysterious.  "  I  suppose  you  know 
somebody's  come,"  said  he.  "  Now,  Mis'  Lispenard, 
you  know  you  know." 

She  felt  herself  grow  faint.    "  And  I  missed  them !  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  mean  the  boys,"  he  said ;  "  I  mean 
somebody  else." 

She  went  away  convinced  that  he  was  jesting,  for 
Haydon  had  become  more  than  ever  a  privileged  char- 
acter. Halfway  home  she  noticed  a  man  pass  into  the 
light  of  the  street-lamp.  She  knew  the  tall  figure  and 
the  quick  step  at  once.  It  was  Jarvis  Trent.  She  was 
[240] 


CHAPTER    SEVENTEEN 

about  to  call  out  to  him,  in  her  surprise  and  delight,  to 
wait  for  her,  when  he  crossed  to  the  opposite  side  of  the 
street.  She  watched  him  until  he  entered  Miss  Armes's 
gate,  and  then  hastened  home  to  tell  Theodore  of  the 
amazing  arrival. 


[241] 


CHAPTER   XVIII 

JARVIS  TRENT,  as  he  stood  at  the  doorway, 
heard  the  sound  of  the  piano  within  the  house. 
He  raised  the  knocker  and  rapped.  The  music 
ceased;  there  was  the  sound  of  a  light  step,  and  then 
the  door  opened,  and  he  saw  her  standing  on  the 
threshold,  in  the  dim  light  from  the  inner  room,  the 
long  hall  dark  behind  her. 

"  I  don't  see  who  it  is,"  she  said,  as  he  took  her  hand, 
involuntarily  extended. 

It  seemed  to  him  that  they  stood  long  in  that  palpi- 
tant half-darkness,  conscious  of  the  recognition  her 
yielding  fingers  gave,  while  her  cool  voice  denied  that 
she  knew  him. 

"  Is  it  you,  Mr.  Cozzens  ?  " 

The  masculine  directness  of  his  own  nature  was 
amused  by  her  finesse,  and  his  whole  being  warmed  to 
the  helpless  yielding  of  her  hand  in  his.  Not  know 
him,  when  her  fingers  clung  and  trembled !  And  all  at 
once  he  knew  his  journey  ended  in  triumph. 

"  No,"  he  answered,  stepping  inside ;  "  it  is  I." 

"  When  did  you  come?  "  she  asked,  and  he  saw  that 
she  faltered. 

They  went  into  the  parlour,  and  she  sat  down  on  the 
piano-stool,  facing  him,  and  he  remembered  that  she 


CHAPTER     EIGHTEEN 

sat  there  when  he  called  on  her  two  years  ago  to 
say  good-bye.  He  had  reached  her  home,  stern  with 
conflicting  emotions,  of  shyness  and  longing  and  self- 
distrust,  and  these  had  gone  when  he  greeted  her.  But 
the  joy  which  had  succeeded  vanished  so  quickly  he 
could  scarcely  believe  in  its  reality.  Could  her  fingers 
have  been  warm,  when  her  eyes  were  now  so  cold  and 
her  face  so  pale?  The  parlour  itself  seemed  damp.  He 
had  forgotten  the  chill  of  adobe  walls  when  the  night 
comes  on  and  a  fire  is  not  lighted.  He  found  himself 
speaking  formally  to  her,  making  the  platitudinous  re- 
mark that  time  was  an  illusion,  and  that  she  had  not 
changed  in  two  years. 

"  I  don't  think  one  is  apt  to  change  much  in  two 
years,  if  one  has  neither  illness  nor  trouble,"  she  an- 
swered. 

He  was  looking  at  her  arms,  slender  like  those  of  a 
very  young  girl,  and  white,  even  against  her  white 
dress.  Their  slenderness,  the  little  lace  ruffles  above 
the  round  elbows,  the  gentle  and  lovely  contour  of  her 
head,  inspired  him  with  indescribable  tenderness. 

"  You  have  been  fortunate,"  he  said. 

"  I  do  not  know,"  she  rejoined.  "  I  have  sometimes 
thought  that  people  are  more  fortunate  if  they  have 
some  trouble." 

"  You  think  that  happiness  would  have  some  relish 
then,"  he  said,  his  strong  face  lighting  with  his  infre- 
quent smile.  "  What  have  you  been  doing  these  two 
[243] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

years  ?  Lispenard  wrote  me  that  you  were  largely  re- 
sponsible in  getting  the  university  here." 

"  You  have  not  seen  the  plans  yet,  have  you?  "  she 
asked,  colouring  with  pleasure.  "  Mr.  Cozzens  has 
them  framed  and  hung  in  his  room.  They  have  been 
our  chief  interest.  But  we  have  missed  the  boys.  I 
think  I  have  wished  to  see  them  almost  as  much  as  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Lispenard.  It  has  been  lonely." 

He  wondered  that  one  who  had  so  sweet  a  self  for 
company  should  ever  be  lonely.  "  Yucca,"  he  said, 
leaning  slightly  forward,  his  hands  on  the  arms  of  his 
chair,  "  do  you  know  why  I  have  come  ?  " 

She  did  not  answer  him.  Her  eyes  widened  watch- 
fully, and  he  was  irresistibly  reminded  of  the  first  time 
he  had  ever  seen  her,  and  the  strangeness  of  the  im- 
pression she  made  on  him  when  he  looked  up  to  see 
the  pale  oval  of  her  face  beyond  the  green  globe  of 
the  lamp  in  his  friend's  home.  He  saw  now  that  her 
watchfulness  sprang  from  timidity. 

He  drew  from  the  inside  pocket  of  his  coat  an  en- 
velope, and  took  out  a  paper  closely  written  on  one 
side.  "  Why  did  you  send  me  this  ?  "  he  asked. 

She  folded  her  hands  together  tight  in  her  lap,  and 
the  white  lace  on  her  breast  stirred  with  her  quickened 
breathing. 

He  was  too  earnest  of  their  future  happiness  to  be 
compassionate  of  her  timidity  now.  He  sat,  character- 
istically a  judge,  still  leaning  forward  in  his  intent- 


CHAPTER     EIGHTEEN 

ness,  the  stern,  level  lines  of  his  mouth  and  eyes  im- 
pressing themselves  upon  her ;  his  head  looked  massive, 
and  she  noticed  that  his  hair  was  more  thickly  touched 
with  grey. 

"  Was  it  because  you  thought  I  had  defied  your 
charm,  and  that  you  wished  to  show  me  how  even  Lis- 
penard,  whose  judgment  you  knew  I  was  apt  to  value 
above  my  own,  had  succumbed  to  your  fascination?  " 

He  saw  that  his  words  hurt  her,  and  that  she  was  too 
proud  to  make  any  denial.  He  softened.  Even  a  shy- 
ness came  into  his  own  level  eyes  at  the  words  he  next 
spoke.  "  Was  it  sent  in  a  romantic,  even  foolish,  mood, 
Yucca,  as  we  all  sent  valentines  when  we  were  young?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  answered.  The  spoken  word  would  have 
brought  him  to  her  feet,  but  her  gesture  withheld  him. 
All  her  sweet  blushes,  all  her  inviting  timidity,  was 
gone,  lost  in  a  look  of  pride  so  great  that  he  was  ap- 
palled. For  the  first  time  he  saw  her  likeness  to  the 
fierce  soldier  whose  portrait  hung  on  the  wall  above 
the  piano  back  of  her.  It  was  a  spiritual,  not  a  phys- 
ical, likeness.  "  But  a  romantic  and  foolish  mood  is  a 
passing  mood.  It  does  not  last  nearly  two  years,"  she 
said. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  punish  me  because  I  did  not  come 
sooner?  "  he  asked  gently.  She  would  not  reply,  and 
after  a  moment  he  continued :  "  Won't  you  come  and 
sit  down  here  beside  me  on  the  lounge?  I  feel  that  I 
cannot  talk  to  you  so,  across  the  room." 
[245] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

She  rose,  but,  instead  of  crossing  to  him,  took  the 
candle  from  the  mantle,  and,  stooping,  lighted  the  fire, 
which  was  laid  and  ready. 

"  I  did  not  realise  how  cold  it  was,"  she  said.  She 
half  knelt,  waiting  to  see  if  the  fire  would  burn;  the 
melting  wax  from  her  carelessly  held  candle  dropped 
on  the  hearth.  The  red  flame  leapt  up  gloriously, 
with  such  an  effect  of  leaping,  all-embracing  light 
that  for  a  second  she  seemed  almost  transparent,  she 
was  so  white. 

"  The  sonnet  refers  to  you  as  a  goddess,"  he  said ; 
"  but  I  see  in  you  a  household  spirit,  the  woman  whose 
love  lights  the  fire  around  which  the  family  life  cir- 
cles." 

She  rose  and  looked  at  him,  smiling,  as  though  the 
warmth  of  the  leaping  flame  had  left  some  faint  re- 
flection of  its  ardour  on  her  spirit. 

"  Are  you  laughing  at  me?  "  he  asked,  smiling  too, 
not  less  appreciative  than  she  of  the  clumsiness  of  his 
compliment. 

She  drew  up  a  rocking-chair  and  sat  near  him,  look- 
ing into  the  fire.  He  had  a  blessed  sense  that  no  one 
would  come  to  interrupt  them,  that  he  had  her  to  him- 
self. The  slightly  parted  hair  on  her  forehead  had  the 
tint  of  pale,  shining  gold  which  he  had  noticed  in  chil- 
dren. She  was  so  exquisite,  so  entrancing  a  woman 
that  he  felt  the  hopelessness  of  ever  really  winning  her. 
He  could  not  fathom  her  charm,  but  it  seemed  to  him 
[246] 


CHAPTER     EIGHTEEN 

that  it  lay  in  her  elemental  freshness.  Delicate  as  she 
was,  he  yet  saw  that  she  possessed  in  herself  the  femi- 
nine counterpart  of  those  qualities  which  he  remem- 
bered made  Cozzens  so  big  and  masculine  a  man. 
Each  had  an  unhampered  personality.  There  had 
been  nothing  shallow  or  contracted  in  their  environ- 
ment. 

With  a  man's  desire  to  lay  his  life  before  the  woman 
of  his  supreme  passion,  choosing  her  alone  to  be  his 
judge,  so  now  he  told  her  of  his  early  struggles  and 
ambitions,  his  youthful  love  for  Adele,  and  his  meeting 
with  her  again  there  in  the  desert.  He  did  not  conceal 
that  he  believed  it  was  for  her  sake  he  had  never 
married,  although  he  never  grudged  Lispenard  his 
happiness.  He  now  regarded  her  as  though  she  were 
his  sister,  and,  except  for  that  first  boyish  infatuation, 
he  doubted  if  his  love  had  ever  been  any  deeper  than 
it  was  that  moment. 

"  No,"  she  said ;  "  you  never  loved  her  as  well  as 
your  own  ambition.  You  will  never  love  any  woman  as 
much  as  that." 

"Do  you  know  me  as  well  as  that?"  he  asked. 
"  Then  you  do  not  know  me  at  all.  Listen  to  me, 
Yucca.  I  was  never  jealous  of  Lispenard  in  those 
days.  I  felt  he  deserved  her.  But  when  I  read  that 
sonnet  he  wrote  to  you  it  maddened  me.  I  ceased  even 
to  think  of  Adele  and  to  resent  it  for  her  sake.  I  used 
to  take  out  that  sonnet,  and  read  it  over  and  over,  al- 
[247] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

ways  tempted  to  destroy  it,  but  constrained  because 
you  were  in  it.  Every  line  breathed  you.  I  could  not 
even  be  sorry  for  my  friend.  I  could  not  stand  the 
thought  of  his  writing  that.  Don't  you  see,  my  dar- 
ling, it  was  not  all  jealousy.  He  was  a  married  man. 
He  had  no  right  to  see  you  in  that  way."  It  was  the 
first  time  in  his  life  that  he  had  ever  uttered  a  critical 
word  of  Lispenard.  "  When  I  said  that  foolish  thing, 
a  moment  since,  about  your  being  the  fireside  spirit,  do 
you  suppose  I  did  not  know  I  was  foolish?  It  was  be- 
cause I  saw  so  well  what  he  saw  in  you  that  I  resented 
it.  I  wanted  you  to  be  something  different  to  me,  dif- 
ferent from  what  any  other  man  in  looking  at  you 
could  see." 

"  Why  did  you  never  write  to  me,  then  ?  "  she  asked 
him.  "  Why  did  you  stay  away  two  years  ?  " 

"  It  was  because  I  still  clung  to  the  thought  that  I 
loved  Adele.  I  felt  that  in  yielding  to  you  I  gave  way 
to  fascination  without  love.  You  were  the  opposite 
of  that  conventional  ideal  woman  for  whom  she  stood 
to  me.  Don't  misunderstand  me." 

She  was  wounded.  "  And  when  I  sent  you  the  poem 
you  thought  I  was  only  vain — scheming " 

"  I  tried  to  think  "that,"  he  admitted  miserably. 

"  I  did  not  want  you  to  forget  me,"  she  said.  Sim- 
ple as  her  words  were,  her  pride  made  the  incident  re- 
mote, as  though  her  emotion  in  regard  to  it  had  long 
since  passed  away. 

[248] 


CHAPTER     EIGHTEEN 

"  Why  did  you  think  I  sent  it?  "  she  asked  him  next. 
"  You  did  not  know  my  handwriting." 

"  No,"  he  answered ;  "  but  I  knew  Lispenard  never 
sent  it  to  me.  A  man  is  not  apt  to  send  such  a  thing 
to  another  man.  And  then,  too,  he  would  have  known 
my  address  more  definitely  than  just  the  name  of  the 
city." 

"  If  you  love  me  now,"  she  said,  "  it  is  because  you 
have  cared  so  much  for  him." 

"  I  don't  follow  you,"  he  said,  distressed.  "  What 
is  there  in  common  with  my  friendship  for  him  and  my 
love  for  you?  " 

"  Because  all  that  is  best  in  me  I  owe  to  him.  It  is 
his  thoughts  I  express,  and  his  ideals,"  she  told  him. 

"  His  ideals,"  echoed  Trent  dully.  He  passed  his 
hand  across  his  eyes,  as  though  to  see  clearer. 

"  Yes,"  she  continued ;  "  for  I  met  him  when  I  was 
very  young,  and  in  all  the  years  afterward  I  never 
heard  him  utter  one  unkind  or  prejudiced  word,  nor 
be  less  than  he  is  now." 

"  I  know  what  he  is,"  Trent  interrupted,  with  a 
curiously  bitter  smile ;  "  you  need  not  tell  me  of  his 
charm." 

"  My  father  cared  nothing  for  books,  and  here  in 
this  desert  I  might  have  developed  into  a  shallow  and 
ignorant  woman,  had  it  not  been  for  him.  All  the  in- 
tellectual life  I  have  ever  had  since  I  came  West  has 
been  through  my  association  with  him." 
[249] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

"  Do  you  remember  that  night  on  the  desert,  when  I 
accused  you  of  loving  him  ?  Was  I  right  then  ?  "  he 
said.  He  braced  himself  against  the  pain  of  her  re- 
ply. Who  had  ever  withstood  Lispenard? 

She  looked  straight  into  the  fire,  and  he  watched  her, 
knowing  she  would  answer  him  truly,  conscious  all  the 
time  of  how  he  loved  her  shining  hair,  her  arms  bare  to 
the  elbows,  not  because  her  hair  was  gold,  nor  her  arms 
white,  but  for  the  reason  that  she  was  expressed  in 
them.  He  remembered  that  he  once  thought  she  was  a 
woman  to  make  men  dream,  not  one  to  waken  desire. 

He  was  not  prepared  for  the  reply  she  made.  "  I 
never  knew  until  that  night  when  you  asked  me." 

"  Until  I  asked  you?  "  he  repeated,  amazed.  Then, 
"  You  mean  that  time  in  the  desert  when  we  were  alone 
and  I  accused  you  of  caring  for  Lispenard  ?  " 

"  I  thought  I  cared  for  him,"  she  said  wistfully.  "  I 
did  not  want  to  do  wrong;  but  Mrs.  Lispenard  never 
seemed  very  happy,  and  I  even  felt  their  marriage  had 
not  been  for  the  best,  and  that  in  some  future  life, 
perhaps — 

She  paused,  and  he  was  touched  by  the  extreme 
youthfulness  of  her  confession.  And  suddenly  he 
seemed  to  see  the  situation  in  its  entirety;  Lispenard, 
an  idealist,  a  poet,  making  the  girl's  beauty  symboli- 
cal ;  she,  full  of  romance  and  very  young,  and  Adele, 
jealous — jealous  of  what?  That  Lispenard  was  a 
poet! 

[250] 


CHAPTER     EIGHTEEN 

Yet  it  was  his  friend  with  whom  he  had  no  patience, 
although  his  mood  was  all  gentleness  toward  the  woman 
he  loved.  It  would  have  been  impossible  for  him,  in 
her  situation,  to  have  remained  in  the  same  town  with  a 
person  he  was  in  honour  bound  not  to  love.  He  could 
not  have  dreamed  the  years  away,  as  he  saw  she  had 
done,  and  never  face  the  moral  issue.  But  a  woman, 
in  her  innocence  mingling  her  religious  feeling  with 
that  of  her  love,  could  be  tranquil  in  such  a  position. 
Her  thoughts  of  love  would  be  as  innocent  as  her 
prayers. 

"  If  my  question  could  put  your  feeling  for  him  to 
the  test,  then  you  never  loved  him,"  he  said.  "  But 
how  could  you  meet  Adele  day  after  day,  if  you 
thought  you  cared  for  him  ?  It  is  that  which  is  not  like 
you.  I  saw  he  cared  for  you." 

It  was  she  who  was  now  distressed.  "  I  think  I  could 
meet  her  because  I  never  wanted  to  do  anything  to 
wound  her.  I  loved  her,  too,  and  Jim  and  Tiggy — I 
loved  them  all,  but  I  admired  him  most."  And  she 
raised  her  eyes  from  the  fire  to  his,  blushing  a  little, 
and  very  sweet.  "  Perhaps  I  never  loved  him  best, 
after  all.  Perhaps  it  was  because  I  admired  him  and 
was  so  grateful  to  him.  Why,  do  you  blame  me  ?  You 
have  always  cared  for  him,  too."  She  was  carrying 
the  war  into  the  enemy's  camp  with  no  regard  for 
reason. 

"  Yes,"  she  insisted,  "  you  have  always  cared  for 
[251] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

him,  too."  It  was  not  only  his  look,  but  a  memory, 
which  caused  her  blush  to  deepen.  Could  she  tell  him 
of  her  shame  that  afternoon  when  Lispenard  had  kissed 
her  hand?  For  her  own  sake,  she  longed  to,  that 
he  might  understand  fully  her  disillusionment, 
but  she  could  not  expose  their  friend's  weakness 
to  him. 

And  she  looked  at  him,  her  eyes  bright  with  the  fire- 
light and  with  laughter.  "  I  love  him  as  much  as  ever, 
because  I  never  loved  him  more." 

Her  rarest  mood  was  upon  her.  She  looked  at  him 
now  as  she  had  that  wonderful  desert  evening  when 
she  evaded  his  embrace  and  fled,  wild  and  delicate, 
across  the  yellow  sands. 

And  the  pale  pink  shawl,  which  had  slipped  from 
her,  like  a  mantle  from  a  young  goddess,  lay  now 
across  the  piano-stool,  one  end  dragging  to  the 
floor. 

Was  she  a  woman  to  make  men  dream?  She  was  a 
woman  supremely  to  be  desired.  The  passion  of  that 
sunset  hour  with  her  in  the  desert  thrilled  him  again. 
He  would  have  taken  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her 
again  and  again,  but  she  was  so  delicate  he  dared  not 
startle  her.  But  he  leant  a  little  forward,  and  took  her 
hand.  "  I  have  walked  about  the  streets  of  my  city, 
fancying,  even  when  I  deemed  it  most  foolish  that  you 
could  love  me,  where  I  should  build  our  home  when  we 
were  married." 

[252] 


"  No,"  she  cried,  frightened,  "  you  must  never  ask 
me  to  leave  the  desert." 

He  was  stunned.  That  thought  had  never  crossed 
his  mind.  "  I  have  a  fair  income,"  he  told  her,  "  but 
it  is  dependent  wholly  upon  my  law  practice.  But 
here  I  should  be  a  poor  man,  unable  to  support  you  as 
I  would  wish  to."  He  pleaded  long  and  well,  but  she 
would  not  yield. 

"  You  tell  me  that  you  cannot  leave  your  city,  that 
your  friends  are  there,  your  law  practice,  your  polit- 
ical interests.  But  what  of  me?  "  she  asked  him. 
"  Do  you  think  I  care  nothing  about  the  future  of 
Sahuaro?  Is  my  home  not  here,  the  home  my  father 
built?  " 

"  I  could  not  make  a  living  for  you  here,"  he  re- 
peated. He  still  held  her  hand.  In  her  cold  decision, 
that  warm  touch  alone  was  his  comfort.  "  See  how  we 
love  each  other,  Yucca.  Our  words  disagree,  but  we 
cannot  loosen  hands.  It  isn't  worth  while  for  us  to 
contend.  You  are  blind,  indeed,  if  you  think  all 
beauty  is  contained  here.  Have  you  ever  been  much  in 
the  woods  ?  " 

"  No ;  but  when  I  have,  I  have  always  wanted  to 
push  the  trees  away  and  gain  the  open  spaces,"  she 
answered. 

"  It  has  always  been  one  of  my  dreams  to  walk  some 
day  in  the  autumn  woods  with  the  woman  I  love,"  he 
rejoined.  He  would  have  put  his  arm  up  around  her 
[253] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

neck  and  drawn  her  to  him,  but  she  withdrew,  shiv- 
ering. 

"  You  would  imprison  me ! "  she  cried.  "  I  will 
never  marry  you  unless  you  stay  here.  What  more  do 
I  ask  of  you  than  you  of  me  ?  " 

"  A  woman  follows  the  man  she  loves  where  he  can 
best  make  a  home  for  her,"  he  answered.  "  Oh,  my 
dearest,  do  you  not  see  that  between  you  and  me,  you 
must  be  the  one  to  yield.  It  is  not  in  me  to  give  way. 
It  would  break  me." 

His  appeal  left  her  cold. 

"  I  want  little.  You  have  come  back  to  us  here. 
Oh !  stay  long  enough,  and  you  will  never  wish  to  go 
away  again."  The  candles  on  the  mantel  were  flicker- 
ing low ;  the  fire  had  fallen  into  embers ;  her  eyes  were 
bright.  She  was  a  sorceress  tempting  him  to  give  up 
his  manhood,  to  let  atrophy  his  ambition,  and  live  a 
parasite  on  her  in  this  vast  desert.  A  chill  ran  through 
him.  He  rose  to  go.  Then  his  longing  for  her  actual 
touch,  the  longing,  day  and  night  for  two  years,  which 
had  brought  him  there  this  evening,  found  expression. 

"  If  you  will  not  marry  me,  nor  kiss  me,  will  you  not 
let  me  hold  you  in  my  arms  for  one  moment,  and  feel 
your  cheek  against  mine?  " 

She,  too,  had  risen.    "  Yes,"  she  whispered. 

He  put  his  arm  about  her,  and  she  rested  a  moment 
in  his  embrace,  her  cheek  touching  his.  But  so  shadowy 
was  the  caress,  so  faint  to  his  ardent  hope,  that  she 
[254] 


CHAPTER     EIGHTEEN 

seemed  almost  less  real  than  the  portrait  of  her  father, 
touched  to  sudden  life  by  a  leaping  tongue  of  flame 
from  the  dying  fire. 

He  found  himself  walking  alone  on  the  street, 
shaken  with  emotion,  utterly  unnerved.  In  the  East 
spring  was  still  in  the  air,  though  the  month  was  June, 
and  its  witchery  had  induced  vagrant  moods,  and  whis- 
pered to  him  Lispenard's  loved  phrase,  "  The  adven- 
ture of  life."  And  he  had  given  way  to  his  longing 
and  come,  starting  almost  on  the  hour  of  his  resolve. 
His  thoughts  drove  him  on  now  past  the  plaza,  into  the 
open  desert.  All  his  doubts  returned.  His  old  dis- 
trust of  her  came  back,  and  in  contrast  to  her  there 
rose  reproachfully  his  old  ideal,  that  visionary  woman, 
not  unlike  Adele,  tender,  yielding,  following  humbly 
the  man  she  loved  to  the  home  he  made  for  her.  He 
recalled  Adele's  father,  that  judicious  scholar  who 
had  so  influenced  his  own  young  manhood.  Had  not 
that  memory  been  another  tie  binding  him  to  faithful- 
ness to  her?  What  could  he  ever  have  had  in  common 
with  the  fierce  old  soldier  of  the  portrait  ?  His  first  in- 
stinct, warning  him  not  to  yield  to  the  girl's  fascina- 
tion, had  been  right.  His  jealousy  of  Lispenard  was 
reawakened.  Did  he  not  know  of  the  fascination  he 
held  for  women?  And  was  he,  Jarvis  Trent,  to  give 
up  his  profession,  his  means  of  livelihood,  to  come  and 
settle  in  the  desert  and  be  one  of  Lispenard's  satel- 
lites? 

[255] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

"  I  will  give  her  up  first,"  he  told  himself,  looking 
about  that  dreary  waste,  unbroken  save  by  the  moun- 
tains, ragged  and  black  against  the  glittering  sky,  and 
the  sleeping  town  behind  him.  Yet,  even  as  he  stood 
there,  the  majesty  of  the  scene  won  upon  him,  and  he 
knew  the  claim  the  desert  made  upon  her;  he,  too,  felt 
the  immensities.  The  woods  and  hills  to  which  he 
would  fain  take  her  were  as  tales  that  are  told. 


[256] 


CHAPTER   XIX 

WHEN  he  awoke  in    the  morning  he  could 
scarcely  realise  that    he  had  been  away  so 
long,  for  all  was  unchanged    in  the  bright 
sunlight.     He  had  slept  so  soundly  that  the  morning 
train  had  come  and  gone  without  disturbing  him.    He 
dressed  and  went  downstairs,  and  exchanged  a  friendly 
nod  with  Hay  don  on  his  way  over  to  Campi's. 

"  So,"  said  Madame  Campi,  greeting  him  over  her 
crocheting,  "  you  have  come  back  to  us." 

When  he  went  up  to  call  on  the  Lispenards  he  was 
delighted  to  find  them  still  at  their  own  breakfast. 
"How  is  this?"  he  asked,  shaking  hands.  "You 
didn't  use  to  have  breakfast  so  late." 

"  It's  our  lunch,"  said  Mrs.  Lispenard,  amused. 

He  looked  at  his  watch.  It  was  after  eleven.  "  I 
forget  time  in  this  country  of  yours  until  it  is  gone 
by."  He  did  not  say  when  he  came,  nor  did  they  ask 
him. 

Lispenard  was  too  tactful  to  show  his  guest  that  he 
knew  where  he  had  been  the  night  before,  and  Adele, 
too,  with  a  secret  sigh  for  her  old  lover's  fickleness,  re- 
sisted the  temptation  of  enquiring  how  he  had  left  their 
fair  neighbour. 

She  invited  him  back  to  supper  in  the  evening,  and 
[257] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

he  spent  the  rest  of  the  day  in  anticipation,  hoping 
that  she  would  invite  Miss  Armes  as  well.  And  he  was 
not  disappointed.  Both  she  and  Cozzens  were  there. 
The  big  mine  owner  had  long  since  forgotten  his  re- 
sentment and  insolent  stare,  and  welcomed  Trent  back 
with  all  the  heartiness  of  which  he  was  capable. 

After  tea  they  walked  over  to  the  new  university 
buildings,  which  Lispenard  could  see  from  his  window 
as  he  sat  at  his  desk.  Cozzens,  eager  to  point  out  every 
budding  architectural  beauty,  did  not  allow  Trent  a 
moment  with  Miss  Armes.  But  he  was  so  glad  to  have 
her  near  him  that  he  did  not  mind  having  his  attention 
absorbed  by  Cozzens.  She  had  refused  him,  and  still 
he  had  no  thought  of  leaving  her.  It  did  not  even  en- 
ter his  head  that  he  might.  She  seemed  to  be  unaltera- 
bly his,  and  had  become  the  love  of  his  life,  as  real  to 
him  as  his  own  existence.  Neither  did  he  intend  to 
make  his  home  in  the  desert. 

The  air  was  full  of  the  colours  of  sunset,  and  this 
flush  of  twilight  bathed  the  little  party  and  gave  a 
look  of  illusion  even  to  the  buildings,  making  them 
look  ancient,  and  transforming  the  solemn  row  of  the 
giant  cacti  growing  about  them  into  ruined  Greek  col- 
umns. 

Once,  as  they  wandered  about,  Trent  turned  to  as- 
sist Yucca  up  the  steps  of  the  uncompleted  building, 
and  the  touch  of  her  hand  thrilled  him  so  that  he  was 
amazed  at  his  own  ardour.  He  was  fain  to  kiss  her, 
[258] 


CHAPTER     NINETEEN 

unmindful  of  her  blushes,  before  the  others.  And  he 
loved  her  better  for  the  look  of  pride  she  gave  him, 
as  if  she  divined  and  resented  his  unfulfilled  inten- 
tion. 

"  I  can't  help  believing  that  in  this  land  of  beauty 
will  be  born  the  noblest  architecture  of  our  country," 
said  Lispenard,  laying  his  hand  affectionately  on  his 
friend's  arm.  "See,  the  very  cacti  are  prophets,  and 
rise  like  the  shafts  and  columns  of  a  temple !  Sculp- 
turing and  painting  are  but  the  handmaidens  to  this 
nobler  art.  They  speak  the  individual  artist,  but  a 
building  unfolds  the  national  character." 

Trent  anticipated  being  Yucca's  companion  on  the 
way  home,  but  Cozzens  forestalled  him,  and  walked  on 
ahead  with  her  himself.  His  powerful  figure,  in  its 
tan  suit,  looked  larger  than  ever,  contrasted  to  her 
slender  form  as  she  walked  beside  him,  yet  always  with 
the  peculiar  air  of  aloofness  which  marked  her  bearing. 
She  wore  the  dress  of  the  night  before,  with  its  elbow 
sleeves,  and  over  her  head  a  mantilla  of  Spanish  lace. 
Trent  recalled  how  he  had  once  seen  her  on  the  desert, 
at  this  hour,  walking  leisurely,  like  a  lady  in  her 
garden. 

Adele  was  in  a  mischievous  mood.  She  was  not  un- 
willing to  punish  Trent  for  his  faithlessness  to  herself, 
and  so  she  detained  him  and  Lispenard  until  the  other 
two  were  well  in  advance.  She  insisted  upon  Trent's 
getting  for  her  a  scarlet  cactus  flower,  and  when  he 
[259] 


finally  brought  it  to  her,  after  some  difficulty,  she  flung 
it  away   because  it  had  no  fragrance. 

"  It  smells  like  the  desert,"  she  said,  dimpling  at  her 
husband.  She  would  never  yield  to  his  opinion  that 
the  desert  was  beautiful.  "  Don't  let's  hurry,"  she 
added,  teasing  Trent ;  "  it's  been  so  long  since  we  three 
were  together.  Do  you  think  I've  changed,  Jarvey  ?  " 
She  seated  herself  on  a  rock,  and  looked  up  at  him, 
smiling. 

"  You  are  more  beautiful  than  ever,"  he  retorted, 
with  laughing  resentment.  He  could  have  shaken  her, 
for  he  saw  that  she  guessed  his  secret. 

"  Don't  spoil  her  further,  Jarvey,"  said  Lispenard ; 
"  she  is  vain  enough  as  it  is."  He  was  prying  up  a 
rock  with  his  walking-stick,  and  a  number  of  irides- 
cent beetles  were  running  away  from  under.  "  Adele, 
my  dear,  your  husband  can  make  you  rich  gifts  of  liv- 
ing jewels,  if  you  will  accept  them." 

"  Thank  you,"  she  retorted.  "  I  can  adorn  myself 
with  them  just  about  as  practically  as  with  your 
treasures  in  heaven  which  you  have  turned  over  to 
me." 

"  Well,  you  have  at  least  the  adornment  of  a  meek 
and  quiet  spirit,  Adele,"  said  Trent. 

Lispenard  laughed.  His  eyes  were  alight  with  ad- 
miration, and  they  were  bent  on  his  wife. 

She  looked  away  for  a  second,  shy  as  a  girl;  then 
rose  impulsively  and  kissed  him.    It  was  the  first  time 
[260] 


CHAPTER     NINETEEN 

she  had  done  so  in  Trent's  presence.  His  fickleness 
made  her  realise  afresh  her  dependence  upon  Lispen- 
ard.  Her  fondness  for  Jarvey  had  not  diminished,  but 
she  was  not  yet  ready  to  forgive  him. 

"  Theodore,  dear,"  she  cried,  linking  arms  with 
him,  "  your  little  finger  is  worth  Jarvis  Trent's  whole 

body.       Whatever  you  are,  you  are  not "     She 

broke  off  abruptly.  "  Oh,  the  train  is  nearly  due,  and 
here  we  are !  Suppose  the  boys  should  come  in  to- 
night. Theodore,  dear,  how  can  you  loiter  so?  I  know 
we'll  be  late !  " 

"  Am  I  never  to  hear  what  I  am  not  ?  "  he  called  as 
she  ran  on  ahead  of  them  both. 

"  And  look  at  the  ambiguous  position  in  which  I  am 
placed,"  Trent  added. 

But  she  would  not  wait  to  answer,  and  the  two  men 
followed  her,  amused. 

"  I  know  the  boys  won't  be  here  for  a  couple  of  days 
yet,  at  the  least,"  added  Lispenard.  "  Look  at  the 
completed  building  from  this  point.  It  is  so  simple, 
and  yet  so  admirable  in  the  landscape."  He  paused  to 
call  his  friend's  attention  to  the  gum  which  was  exud- 
ing from  the  cactus  stem  where  Trent  picked  the 
scarlet  flower  for  Adele.  "  See  the  precaution  Nature 
takes  against  evaporation  if  a  plant  is  wounded.  You 
once  said  I  seemed  like  a  man  intoxicated.  I  am,  Jar- 
vey. Out  here  I  have  quaffed  a  '  drink  divine.'  I  am 
never  wearied." 

[261] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

Meanwhile  Cozzens  had  asked  his  companion  sulkily 
if  she  were  going  to  marry  Trent. 

"  No,"  she  told  him. 

His  surprise  was  great.  He  had  braced  himself 
manfully  to  bear  the  news  of  her  marriage.  Cozzens 
was  not  so  ungallant  as  to  deny  a  woman  her  choice  in 
love.  His  passion  for  Yucca  was  not  sufficient  to  make 
him  jealous,  and  he  did  not  resent  Trent's  wooing  of 
her,  as  he  had  that  other  incident  when  Trent  had  given 
Mrs.  Lispenard  money  to  run  away  from  her  husband. 
For  Cozzens  was  never  to  be  persuaded  that  Trent  had 
not  lent  the  money  knowingly  for  this  very  purpose, 
and  he  was  always  puzzled  by  the  fact  that  the  two  had 
not  met  later  in  the  East,  which  would  seem  the  natural 
outcome  of  their  actions. 

Strangely  enough,  Yucca's  reply  did  not  fill  him 
with  the  gladness  it  should.  She  was  not  going  to 
marry  Trent.  Therefore,  she  accepted  him ;  and  Coz- 
zens, born  rover  that  he  was,  with  a  sweetheart  in 
every  town  like  a  sailor,  experienced  a  momentary  dis- 
may. And,  moreover,  there  was  still  a  certain  senora 
in  the  Capital,  a  young  widow,  whose  black  eyes  fas- 
cinated him,  and  whose  white  hands  played  on  the 
strings  of  his  heart  as  skilfully  as  on  her  guitar.  But 
he  distrusted  black  eyes  as  much  as  ever,  and  he  knew 
that  the  senora  had  a  thought  to  his  fortune,  whereas 
Yucca's  eyes  were  cool  and  serene,  and  she  had  refused 
him  and  his  wealth  consistently  for  years. 
[262] 


CHAPTER     NINETEEN 

"  Well,  my  girl,"  he  said ;  "  whenever  you  set  the 
day,  I'm  ready." 

"  Ready !  "  she  echoed ;  "  but  I  am  not  going  to 
marry  anyone." 

She  wouldn't  marry  Trent ;  she  wouldn't  marry  him. 
Then  what  did  she  intend  to  do?  He  puffed  at  his 
cigar  speculatively. 

She  glanced  around  to  see  if  anyone  were  near  them, 
and  lowered  her  voice. 

"  What  made  you  think  Mr.  Trent  wanted  to  marry 
me?  "  she  asked,  full  of  delight. 

Cozzens  gave  her  a  shrewd  look.  "  Damme,  Yucca, 
I  believe  you're  dead  in  love  with  the  fellow."  And 
his  own  spirits  rose  with  a  bound. 

"  No,  no !  "  she  cried. 

"  So  you  were  only  fooling  when  you  said  you 
weren't  going  to  marry  him.  Women  are  deceiving 
creatures."  And  he  remembered  with  suspicion  the 
senora's  black  eyes. 

"  You  don't  understand,"  she  protested  gently,  pale 
with  the  pain  the  resolution  cost  her.  "  He  will  not 
come  to  live  here  with  us,  and  I  will  never  leave  Sa- 
huaro." 

"  Good  Lord !  "  he  said ;  "  then  where's  the  sense  of 
being  in  love  with  him  if  you  don't  intend  to  marry 
him?  I  declare,  Yucca,  you  don't  talk  like  a  natural 
woman.  I'm  astonished  at  you." 

She  did  not  answer  him,  absorbed  in  her  own  sense 
[263] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

of  the  tragic.  She  half  lifted  her  pretty  white  arms, 
bare  to  the  elbow,  and  let  them  fall  again.  Why 
should  they  have  felt  empty  all  the  day  long  because 
Trent  last  night  had  drawn  them  about  his  neck  and 
she  found  herself  in  fancy  turning  her  face  that  their 
lips  and  not  their  cheeks  might  meet.  Then  her 
father's  pride  rose  in  her  superior  to  the  instinctive 
yielding  of  the  woman.  Her  spirit  leapt  to  this 
matching  of  wills  with  her  lover.  Her  beauty  was 
pitted  against  his  strength,  and  she  knew  that  she 
would  prevail. 

Cozzens  was  silent.  Yucca  had  always  been  more  or 
less  strange  to  him,  but  never  as  unaccountably  so  as 
now.  He  had  a  sense  of  renewed  freedom  and  tri- 
umphant conviction  that  he  was  getting  the  best  of 
it  in  this  moment  when  he  consigned  the  final  problem 
of  her  personality  to  his  rival.  And  the  senora's  eyes 
were  bright  and  her  handclasp  warm,  but  he  was  in 
no  haste  to  marry.  Yucca's  refusal  had  given  him 
a  fresh  lease  on  his  bachelor's  existence.  He  would 
do  well  by  the  little  girl  when  she  got  over  her 
quarrel  with  her  lover,  and  quieted  down  into  mar- 
rying him.  She  should  have  a  diamond  necklace 
for  her  white  neck,  and  bracelets  for  her  pretty 
arms. 

The  boys  were  not  on  the  Overland  that  night,  and 
after  the  mail  had  been  distributed  the  little  party 
separated.  Mrs.  Lispenard  and  Yucca  returned  home, 
[264] 


CHAPTER     NINETEEN 

and  Cozzens  went  up  to  his  office  to  do  some  work,  as 
he  was  going  out  of  town  the  next  day. 

Lispenard  dragged  his  guest  off  for  a  walk  alone 
with  him,  and  Trent  went  reluctantly,  unable  to  get 
even  a  direct  glance  from  his  sweetheart's  eyes  as  she 
said  good-night. 

It  was  a  mild  night,  and  they  went  out  beyond  the 
confines  of  the  Indian  village,  and  there  Lispenard  lay 
down  on  the  warm  sands,  flat  on  his  back. 

"  Lie  down,"  he  said,  "  and  look  up  at  the  stars." 

Trent  demurred.  "  How  about  scorpions  and 
spiders  ?  " 

"  Lie  down,"  cried  Lispenard,  laughing  at  him. 
"  *  Art  thou  slave  to  fear,  my  soul?  Then  do  a  thou- 
sand dangers  menace  thee.' '  He  raised  himself  on 
his  elbow  and  glanced  about.  "  It's  safe  enough,  Jar- 
vey,  really.  None  of  us  has  ever  been  bitten,  and  there 
are  no  rocks  about  here."  He  took  off  his  coat  and 
rolled  it  up.  "  Use  this  for  a  pillow,"  he  said ;  "  no, 
I  don't  want  it.  I'm  never  too  cold  nor  too  hot.  I'm 
acclimated,  you  know." 

"  Keep  it  yourself,"  said  Trent ;  "  I  am  not  going 
to  lie  down."  He  seated  himself  beside  his  friend  as 
he  spoke.  Lispenard  was  anxious  to  talk  over  the  in- 
creasing success  of  his  book  with  this  best  friend,  and 
to  outline  to  him  his  second  book  of  philosophy.  The 
starlight  revealed  his  fair  hair,  his  bright  eyes,  dark 
in  contrast  to  his  face,  of  a  different  whiteness  from 
[265] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

his  shirt-sleeves.  His  voice  ran  on,  touching  lightly 
here  and  there  on  many  subjects.  He  had  much  to 
tell  Trent,  much  to  hear. 

Above  them  the  yellow  stars  were  dim.  Thousands 
of  feet  above  mists  were  forming  into  clouds. 

"  Theodore,"  Trent  asked  abruptly,  "  how  have  you 
been  able  to  hold  to  your  religion  in  the  face  of 
such  immensity  as  this?  Think  of  the  races  of  men 
who  have  looked  up  to  those  stars,  the  ancient  civilisa- 
tion that  was  once  here,  for  instance,  and  now  but  the 
dust  of  the  desert  about  us." 

"  I  have  passed  through  all  that,"  he  answered ;  "  it 
has  become  home  to  me  out  here  although  the  sense  of 
immensity  does  not  go.  It  is  mystery  within  mystery, 
but  the  soul's  aspiration  is  its  own  answer  of  immor- 
tality. Do  you  suppose  we  can  wonder  over  those 
stars  now,  and  not  know  their  vital  meaning  some  time? 
The  hungry  body  argues  bread.  The  future  alone 
gives  zest  to  the  present,  and  I  find  that  I  am  con- 
tinually looking  forward  to  those  further  adventures 
of  the  spirit  which  immortality  promises  us." 

"  What  is  it  that  makes  you  so  happy,  Theodore  ?  " 
Trent  asked.  "  It  is  always  so  with  you.  You  are  like 
a  man  intoxicated,  whose  stimulation  never  goes.  But 
even  so,  I  have  never  known  you  to  be  as  you  are  now." 

"  No  sudden  conversion,  I  assure  you,"  he  answered 
merrily.  "  Was  that  what  you  thought  ?  No,  no, 
something  less — vanity,  vanity.  Do  you  suppose  I 
I  266  ] 


CHAPTER    NINETEEN 

have  lost  relish  of  life  because  I  have  lived  so  long  out 
here?  Do  you  think  the  taste  of  success  is  not  sweet 
in  my  mouth?  I  have  hungered  for  it,  Trent,"  his 
voice  vibrant  with  sudden  passion ;  "  hungered  for  it. 
And  it  is  coming.  Behold  in  me  the  philosopher,  the 
flattered  dreamer  turned  teacher.  I  am  going  to  teach 
the  young  men  of  our  university  what  the  Church 
should  be." 

"  I  did  not  know  you  cared  so  much  for  your 
church,"  said  Trent  with  wonder. 

"  Shall  I  tell  you  why  religion  is  an  empty  husk 
for  you  ?  "  said  Lispenard,  turning  over  on  his  elbow. 
"  I  will  be  your  soul's  physician,  and  touch  the  sore 
spot.  You  have  only  brooded  on  religion,  you  have 
never  thought  seriously  about  it.  I  think  in  these 
days  that  most  of  us  are  not  born  to  faith  any  more 
than  the  schoolboy  loves  his  Latin  and  Greek.  We 
have  lost  the  heritage  of  our  fathers.  But  if  the  boy 
is  soundly  whipped  into  learning  his  classics,  the 
ideals  of  those  splendid  old  philosophers  will  influence 
him  in  maturity,  although  he  has  forgotten  every 
word  of  the  languages.  I  never  pray  myself,  except 
perfunctorily,  but  Mrs.  Lispenard  brought  the  chil- 
dren up  to  do  so.  Prayers  are  the  props  of  our  re- 
ligion. We  learn  faith  by  their  aid." 

"  Dear  old  Lispenard,"  said  Trent,  smiling,  but  full 
of  strange  emotion.  Had  she  not  said  that  she  had 
never  heard  him  utter  a  prejudiced  word,  nor  one  that 
[267] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

was  unideal?  No  wonder  that  she  could  not  leave  the 
place  where  he  was,  that  she  hid  her  real  reason  behind 
a  subterfuge  of  caring  for  the  future  of  Sahuaro. 
What  woman  ever  sacrificed  the  man  she  loved  for  the 
town  in  which  she  lived !  No,  she  did  not  love  him. 
The  thought  did  not  make  him  jealous  nor  angry  now, 
but  profoundly  sad. 

He  looked  about  them.  The  mists  were  gathering 
closer,  the  stars  no  longer  sparkled,  but  were  soft  and 
very  yellow  in  the  blackness. 

"  How  desperately  lonely  it  is  here,"  he  said ;  "  I 
should  go  insane  if  I  remained  here  long."  He  lifted 
his  hand  and  let  the  sand  trickle  through  his  fingers. 

"  Did  we  ever  tell  you  what  Tiggy  once  said?  " 
asked  Lispenard.  "  When  he  was  quite  a  little  fellow 
he  told  his  mother  that  he  guessed  there  was  sand 
enough  in  the  desert  to  make  an  hour-glass  for  God  to 
tell  all  the  time  in  the  world  by." 

"  I'm  not  surprised  at  any  speech  he  makes,"  Trent 
answered ;  "  he  is  you  over  again." 

"  Did  you  ever  hear  of  joy  making  people  weak?  " 
Lispenard  asked  thoughtfully,  after  a  while.  "  I  have 
had  a  faint  heart  ever  since  Adele  came  back  and  my 
book  was  accepted,  and,  finally,  as  I  have  seen  my 
ideals  taking  form  in  those  buildings,  it  has  seemed 
almost  too  much.  If  you  don't  understand  what  I 
mean  I  can't  explain  it.  To-morrow  we  must  go  up  to 
Cozzens's  room  and  see  the  plans  for  the  complete 
[268] 


CHAPTER     NINETEEN 

quadrangle.  He  has  them  framed  and  hanging  on  his 
wall.  I  often  think  how  we  owe  all  of  this  to  Miss 
Armes.  It  was  her  inspiration.  I  think  I  wrote  to  you 
about  it." 

"  Yes,"  said  Trent,  his  heart  beating  as  furiously 
as  if  he  were  a  boy.  He  longed  to  have  his  friend  con- 
tinue the  subject,  but  he  relapsed  into  silence,  and 
Trent,  remembering  the  sonnet,  wondered  if  the  same 
beautiful  face  were  forming  for  them  both  in  the  dark- 
ness. At  this  time  last  night  he  had  held  her  in  his 
arms,  her  cheek  laid  to  his.  He  asked  nothing  more  of 
Fate  than  that  moment  might  be  repeated.  Restless- 
ness, born  of  his  unsatisfied  love,  was  upon  him.  He 
determined  to  leave  Lispenard  that  he  might  at  least 
walk  by  her  house.  He  raised  his  head  to  the  sky  and 
gained  a  sense  of  overwhelming  darkness.  The  stars 
were  almost  gone.  And  as  if  he  were  once  more  a  very 
little  child  he  was  seized  with  terror  of  the  dark. 

"  I  never  heard  such  a  stillness.  It  is  so  awful  I 
would  not  like  to  raise  my  voice.  It  is  a  kind  of  death 
in  life.  How  can  you  endure  it,  Theodore?  On  the 
ocean,  although  the  night  may  be  like  pitch,  you  can 
at  least  hear  the  ripple  of  the  waves,  and  in  the  forest 
it  is  never  still — but  here,  God  knows,  here  is  nothing. 
I  can  scarcely  realise  there  is  air  to-night.  You 
might  listen  forever,  and  I  do  not  believe  you  would 
hear  even  the  whir  of  a  bird's  wings  above  you  out 
here." 

[269] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

"  Hush,"  said  his  companion.  He  tapped  his  walk- 
ing-stick on  the  ground  lightly,  once,  twice,  thrice. 

In  a  moment  came  the  reply,  the  sharp  little  tap, 
tap,  tap,  of  a  prairie-dog  in  his  burrow. 

"  How  is  that,"  said  Lispenard,  laughing ;  "  can  an 
army  of  homes  be  a  desert?  " 

Tap,  tap,  tap,  the  little  creature  was  giving  its 
signal  again. 

Knocking  lightly  with  his  stick  in  answer,  he  con- 
tinued. "  They  follow  irrigation.  And  far  below  us 
are  the  invisible  rivers  of  the  desert  to  which  they  bur- 
row down." 

"  I  am  reminded  of  Coleridge's  lines,"  spoke  Trent, 
softened. 

"  '  Where  Alph,  the  sacred  river,  ran, 
Through  caverns  measureless  to  man 
Down  to  a  sunless  sea.'  " 

He  rose.  "  Don't  come  if  you  don't  want  to,  but  I'm 
going  in.  I  can't  stand  any  more  of  this  to-night. 
It's  too  lonely." 

"  Go  on,  then,"  Lispenard  retorted  gaily ;  "  I  am 
not  going  with  you." 

"  Well,  good-night,"  said  Trent,  looking  down  af- 
fectionately at  the  boyish  figure  at  his  feet.  He  went 
away  and  left  him  lying  there. 

He  was  glad  of  the  cheerful  greeting  of  the  little 
town  when  he  went  back  into  it.  People  were  still  eat- 
ing and  drinking  in  at  Campi's;  music  floated  out 
[270] 


CHAPTER     NINETEEN 

from  behind  the  saloon  doors,  and  a  couple  of  cowboys 
were  aiming  at  the  leaping  white  rabbit  and  hounds 
in  the  open  shooting  gallery  which  he  remembered  so 
well.  A  crowd  was  beginning  to  gather  in  a  small 
adobe  building  where  a  cock-fight  was  to  come  off 
later.  Trent  passed  the  ruffled  game  cocks,  which  were 
as  yet  tethered  each  by  a  cord  to  a  peg  driven  in  the 
earth  near  the  sidewalk.  The  proprietor  of  the  cigar 
stand  was  throwing  dice  with  his  customers,  and  he 
could  see  a  couple  of  industrious  Chinese,  barefooted 
and  in  blue  jeans,  ironing  in  the  back  of  the  laundry 
shop.  He  felt  a  lift  of  spirits.  This  rough,  floating 
population  was  intensely  real  and  human,  and  he  was 
more  in  sympathy  with  their  interdependence  than 
with  the  solitude  of  that  boyish  figure  lying  alone  in 
the  desert,  watching  the  dimming  stars.  He  was 
in  Sahuaro  once  more,  with  its  quaint  Mexican- 
Spanish  traditions  infused  with  American  ambi- 
tion; its  adobe  houses  and  green  plaza;  its  low 
nestling  trees  and  the  brooding  spirit  of  the  mission 
of  Santa  Ines.  He  did  not  wonder  that  Yucca  loved 
it,  that  she  should  refuse  to  leave.  He  felt  him- 
self weakening;  a  man  might  do  worse  than  end  his 
days  here.  He  turned  from  the  main  street  into  that 
on  which  she  lived.  The  sound  of  music  was  in  the 
quiet  street,  and  as  he  strolled  on  he  distinguished  the 
guitar  accompaniment  to  the  voice.  It  was  a  Mexican 
serenading  his  sweetheart. 

[271] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

The  wild  love  of  the  song  stirred  his  pulses  the 
while  his  instinct  revolted  against  lending  himself  to 
the  mood  of  abandonment  the  music  invoked. 

As  he  neared  Miss  Armes's  home  the  singing  ceased, 
and  a  young  man  leapt  the  adobe  wall  of  her  outer  gar- 
den and  came  toward  him,  twanging  his  guitar,  and 
humming  broken  snatches  of  the  serenade.  As  they 
passed  each  other  in  the  lamplight  at  the  corner  Trent 
recognised  the  romantic  dark  face,  and  nodded  to  the 
young  fellow.  He  was  a  parishioner  of  Lispenard's. 
He  could  scarcely  be  jealous  of  him,  but  he  stood  long 
outside  her  garden  wall  breathing  the  magnolia- 
scented  air,  thinking  that  the  voice  of  a  boy  could 
reach  her,  while  he  had  no  way  to  let  her  know  that  he 
stood  without,  hungry  for  the  sound  of  her  voice  and 
the  touch  of  her  hand.  And  he  was  scornful  and  im- 
patient of  his  own  stiffness  of  moral  fibre  which  could 
not  lend  itself  to  abandonment,  which  made  principles 
out  of  conventions,  and  made  it  impossible  for  him  to 
think  the  world  well  lost  for  love. 


CHAPTER  XX 

JIM  and  Tiggy  were  home  again,  so  changed,  and 
yet  so  unchanged  in  their  mother's  fond  eyes.    Jim 
was  now  sixteen,  tall  and  large  for  his  age  like  the 
men  of  her  family.     In  the  fall,  through  his  father's 
coaching  during  the  summer,  he  would  be  able  to  enter 
college.      They   intended   him  to  take   the   classical 
course  first,  and  then  adopt  a  profession.    Tiggy  had 
changed  less,  but  the  cold  New  England  winters  had 
done  the  little  fellow  good,  and  his  mother  saw  the 
healthy  colour  in  his  cheeks  for  the  first  time. 

Often  through  the  half-closed  door  of  the  living 
room  Lispenard  as  he  sat  at  his  desk  found  himself 
listening  to  the  pretty  by-play  that  went  on  in  the 
other  part  of  the  house  between  the  mother  and  sons. 
Adele  was  a  coquette  with  the  oldest  boy,  and  made 
more  of  a  baby  of  Tiggy  than  ever  before.  He  heard 
her  pretence  of  alarm  for  the  splendid  health  of  her 
boy  when  she  detected  the  odour  of  tobacco  in  his 
hair,  and  his  pleased,  important  protestation  in  reply 
that  he  was  not  to  be  treated  like  a  child  any  more; 
his  fine  and  confident  promise  that  he'd  keep  an  eye  on 
Tiggy,  and  "  lamm  "  him  if  he  ever  caught  him  at  the 
same  trick. 

"  Jim  would  make  an  admirable  censor  of  public 
morals,"  said  Lispenard  to  himself ;  "  he  would  take  no 
[273] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

petty  personal  view."  He  opened  his  watch  and  placed 
it  in  front  of  him.  At  eleven  o'clock  he  was  going  to 
hear  Jim's  Greek,  and  he  had  only  a  little  over  an  hour 
for  his  own  work. 

The  boys  had  been  home  a  week,  and  the  novelty  of 
their  coming  still  lingered  and  made  a  holiday  atmos- 
phere in  the  house.  Under  the  bronze  boar  which  was 
his  paper  weight  was  a  note.  Since  his  arrival  Tiggy 
placed  a  letter  there  every  morning,  and  Lispenard 
always  answered  it,  putting  his  reply  in  place  of 
the  other.  It  invariably  disappeared  mysteriously, 
and  he  could  only  guess  from  Tiggy's  demure  expres- 
sion that  he  had  received  it.  It  was  tacitly  understood 
between  them  that  the  correspondence  was  to  be  kept 
secret. 

"  Did  you  ever,"  read  this  morning's  note,  "  sit  all 
by  yourself  on  a  big  stone  and  pretend  like  you  was 
asleep " 

"  How  can  he  write  '  like  you  was '  and  be  my 
child?  "  murmured  Lispenard,  and  read  on. 

" only  your  eyes  were  open,  and  after  a  while 

you  see  two  eyes  watching  you,  and  winking  faster 
than  mamma's  little  gold  watch  ticks.  And  also  two 
long  ears  trembling  because  they  are  listening  so  hard. 
His  fur  is  grey  like  the  bunch-grass,  and  he  thinks  you 
do  not  see  him.  Do  you  know  who  I  mean  ? 

"  Your  kind  friend, 

"  TIGGY." 
[274] 


CHAPTER    TWENTY 

He  took  his  pen  and  wrote  in  answer :  "  I  think  you 
mean  a  jack-rabbit.  Did  you  ever  think  a  deer  had 
the  same  kind  of  big  eyes  so  that  it,  too,  could  watch 
out  for  enemies?  Can  you  whistle  as  Cozzens  can,  and 
gather  a  number  of  rabbits  about  you?  Try  it. 
"  Your  faithful  friend, 

"  T.  L." 

He  looked  out  of  the  open  door  and  saw  Jim  going 
through  the  gate,  and  knew  he  was  going  down  to 
Haydon's.  He  thoroughly  approved  of  the  associa- 
tion, for  he  felt  that  the  depot  was  to  Jim  what  the 
corner  grocery  was  to  a  village  boy,  and  that  he  was 
acquiring  homely  virtues  from  the  station-master: 
shrewdness  in  judging  people,  practical  suggestions 
about  nursing  sick  people,  and  learning  the  history  of 
the  Civil  War  in  the  best  way  from  a  Southerner  who 
fought  in  it,  and  hearing  from  him  quaint  tales  of 
the  negroes.  It  fretted  him  not  at  all,  although  it  did 
his  wife,  that  Haydon  went  about  in  his  shirt  sleeves, 
chewing  tobacco. 

Jim  was  glad  to  be  home,  proud  to  tell  his  cronies 
of  his  experiences  in  the  East,  more  confident  than 
ever  that  Sahuaro  for  a  town  of  its  size  was  not  to  be 
equalled  for  attractiveness  in  the  whole  United  States. 
The  palms  about  the  plaza  were  finer  to  him  than  the 
arching  elms  of  New  England  streets;  and  as  for 
dreariness,  what  could  be  more  dreary  than  an  East- 
[275] 


ern  winter,  leafless  and  cold,  and  generally  grey.  He 
had  not  learned  to  like  swimming.  So  much  water  was 
foreign  to  his  nature ;  and  who  would  care  for  the  close 
woods  who  had  ever  watched  the  black  wings  of  a  con- 
dor sailing  motionless  in  a  boundless  blue  sky? 

Like  a  sailor  on  land  he  had  been  ill  at  ease  in  the 
New  England  city,  missing  the  vast  freedom  of  the 
open  desert  and  the  immeasurable  sky.  He  closed 
the  gate  behind  him,  and  wandered  down  the  street, 
his  hands  in  his  pockets,  squinting  a  little  in  the  strong 
light,  a  trifle  defiant  and  aggressive  in  his  manner  like 
any  healthy  lad  of  his  age. 

Cozzens  stood  on  the  corner  in  front  of  the  bank 
talking  to  a  couple  of  men.  He  glanced  at  Jim 
sternly,  and  gave  him  a  curt  nod. 

"  Fine-looking  boy,  the  minister's  son,"  remarked 
one  of  his  companions. 

"  Straight  legs  and  good  lungs,"  said  Cozzens 
brusquely.  He  had  no  intention  of  spoiling  Jim. 

Jim  glanced  back  over  his  shoulder  at  the  powerful 
figure  of  his  friend.  He  wished  he  dared  hang  around 
Cozzens's  office  all  day  wrapped  in  boyish  admiration 
of  the  big  mine  owner,  but  there  was  no  invitation  in 
the  glance  he  received,  and  so  he  went  on  toward  the 
plaza. 

There  he  found  Haydon  sweeping  off  the  platform. 
At  present  his  house  contained  no  invalid,  and  he  was 
a  man  of  leisure.  He  handed  his  broom  over  to  Jim, 
[276] 


CHAPTER    TWENTY 

and  sat  down  in  one  of  his  two  big-armed  chairs.  In 
return  for  his  hospitality  and  entertainment  he  always 
demanded  that  the  boys  who  hung  around  the  depot 
should  help  him  out  with  his  chores. 

He  took  a  bite  of  tobacco  and  stared  out  to  the 
desert,  his  weather-eye  cocked.  "  Looks  roughish,"  he 
remarked. 

"  Huh,"  said  Jim,  giving  a  final  sweep  with  the 
broom,  and  sitting  down  in  the  other  chair. 

The  sky  had  lost  the  deep  blue  of  early  morning, 
and  was  lilac  with  a  reddish  tinge.  Far  off  the  wind 
was  raising  swirls  of  sand,  but  the  breeze  had  not  yet 
reached  Sahuaro,  and  the  bordering  palms  of  the 
plaza  were  motionless. 

"  Kind  of  quiet  to-day,"  said  Jim,  after  a  while, 
fretting  that  he  could  not  go  up  and  hang  around 
Cozzens's  office. 

"  Roughish,"  insisted  Haydon.  "  It's  a  storm- 
breeder." 

The  mountains  were  crouching  low,  dull  and  threat- 
ening in  the  reddish  haze  of  the  air. 

"  What's  Tiggy  doing  out  there  all  this  time  ?  " 
asked  the  station-master. 

"  Where  ? "  enquired  Jim  scornfully,  as  if  he 
doubted  the  observation  the  question  implied. 

"  Must  have  found  something,"  commented  Hay- 
don. 

"  Oh,  now  I  see  him !  "  cried  Jim. 
[277] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

The  little  fellow  had  stopped  near  the  Indian  vil- 
lage, and  as  they  watched  him  he  started  on. 

"  Guess  I'll  go  find  out  what  he's  up  to,"  said  Jim 
restlessly.  Pie  rose  and  strode  off,  his  hands  in  his 
pockets.  He  and  Tiggy  had  seen  little  of  each  other 
since  their  return.  Away  the  bond  of  their  mutual 
loneliness  had  united  them;  here  their  separate  inter- 
ests and  Jim's  old  friends  took  them  apart. 

Tiggy  was  well  out  into  the  open  desert  by  the  time 
his  brother  reached  the  Indian  village.  Jim  stopped  to 
greet  an  old  squaw  who  was  famous  for  her  pottery, 
and  whom  he  had  always  known.  She  was  covering 
up  her  clay  and  several  half-formed  vases  with  a  heavy 
blanket.  Why  was  she  not  making  her  pottery,  he 
asked  her  in  the  Spanish  patois  which  Cozzens  had 
taught  him.  She  was  chary  of  words,  and  for  answer 
looked  up  at  the  sky,  and  out  at  the  desert,  and  shook 
her  head.  She  feared  a  storm,  and  would  not  work 
until  it  was  over,  for  if  the  sand  blew  on  the  wet  clay 
in  the  bin  it  would  ruin  it. 

A  little  further  on  he  passed  old  Juan,  her  husband, 
who  was  digging  wood  for  the  three-cornered  fireplace 
in  their  adobe  hut.  The  great  tap-roots  lay  about  him 
on  the  shimmering  sand  like  evil  snarls  twisted  by  a 
witch. 

He  heard  the  Indian's  guttural  voice  calling  after 
him,  and  caught  the  word  red  in  the  Spanish-Amer- 
ican patois  he  spoke. 

[278] 


CHAPTER    TWENTY 

"  What  does  he  want,  I  wonder,"  thought  Jim  with 
a  good-natured  wave  of  his  hand.  "  Too  much  mes- 
cal, I  guess." 

He  looked  back  again  over  his  shoulder  and  saw 
that  the  old  man  beckoned  to  him  again.  Afterward 
Jim  remembered  the  warning  gesture  of  the  bowed 
wooddigger  of  the  desert,  but  now  he  hurried  on,  anx- 
ious to  overtake  Tiggy,  who  was  some  distance  out. 

"  Where  are  you  going,  Tig?  "  he  shouted,  when  he 
at  last  neared  him.  It  was  nearly  noon,  and  the  sun 
was  blazing.  He  was  beginning  to  feel  irritated. 
"  Why,  don't  you  stop  when  I  call  to  you  ?  "  he  cried. 

"  I'm  stopping,"  said  Tiggy  serenely.  But  as  he 
continued  to  walk  on,  Jim  fell  into  step  with  him. 

"  I'm  going  to  build  a  sand-boat,"  he  said.  "  I'm 
going  to  make  the  money  by  working  for  Cozzens  at 
the  mines  during  the  vacation.  Won't  we  have  some 
jolly  sailing?  Talk  about  your  old  ocean,  Tig.  The 
fellows  at  school  didn't  know  anything  about  it  here, 
did  they?  Thought  I  was  bluffing.  I  wish  they'd 
all  come  out  and  take  a  sail  with  me." 

He  raised  his  voice  and  gave  a  great  shout.  "  Don't 
you  feel  as  if  we'd  only  been  whispering  while  we  were 
away.  It's  kind  of  good  to  stretch  your  lungs  once 
more,  isn't  it  ?  " 

Tiggy  followed  his  example  and  called  out,  but  the 
second  time  he  shouted  it  struck  Jim  that  his  tone  was 
peculiar. 

[279] 


THE     VOICE     IN     THE     DESERT 

"  How  queer  you  call,"  he  said.  "  Why  don't  you 
give  a  good  live  yell  the  way  I  do?  " 

Tiggy  laughed  and  fled  over  the  sands.  When  he 
was  at  a  safe  distance  he  put  his  hand  to  his  mouth 
and  gave  a  low,  long,  peculiar  cry. 

"  You  are  calling  to  someone,"  said  Jim,  dumb- 
founded. He  looked  around  and  saw  no  one.  He 
frowned,  for  he  never  approved  of  Tiggy's  pretend- 
ing someone  else  than  themselves  was  around.  "  Stop 
it !  "  he  cried,  with  the  ready  tyranny  of  the  older 
brother,  and  ran  after  him.  But  Tiggy  eluded  him 
like  a  jack-rabbit,  doubling  on  his  steps,  lighter 
and  swifter  than  his  brother,  giving  that  peculiar  cry 
when  he  could  pause  for  breath.  Then  Jim  began  to 
laugh  as  he  saw  that  he  was  beaten,  and  he  was  proud 
of  Tiggy's  ability  to  win  out  against  him. 

"  The  darn  little  cuss,"  he  said,  quoting  Cozzens. 
Jim  could  have  cursed  the  men  at  the  mines  as  well 
as  the  frontiersman  himself.  "  Here,"  he  called ; 
"  you've  lost  your  cap  back  there." 

But  he  would  not  heed  him,  and  Jim  had  to  go  back 
and  pick  up  the  cap  himself.  "  Come  on ;  I  promise 
to  let  up  on  you." 

So  Tiggy  waited,  and  put  on  his  cap.  "  I'll  tell  you 
what  I'm  calling.  See,  over  there." 

Jim  stared.  "  Get  out,"  he  said  slowly ;  "  you're 
crazy." 

Far  off,  it  seemed  to  him,  he  saw  a  grey  form,  yet  as 
[280] 


CHAPTER    TWENTY 

he  looked  longer  it  seemed  nearer,  for  the  desert  was 
full  of  illusions  this  morning.  It  appeared  like  a 
gigantic  dog  as  it  stood  for  a  minute  on  a  little  sand- 
hill, eyeing  them. 

"  It's  my  wolf !  "  cried  Tiggy,  dancing  with  delight. 
"  He  ha~  come  back." 

"  He's  only  got  three  feet,"  cried  Jim, 

"  Yes,  yes ! "  shouted  Tiggy ;  "  he  has  only  three 
paws." 

Jim  bounded  ahead.  "  Come  on ;  let's  get  nearer 
him."  Curiosity  as  to  Tiggy 's  familiarity  with 
a  wolf  was  for  the  time  lost  in  his  desire  to  get 
nearer  it. 

"  Oh,  let  me  go  first,  and  call,"  cried  his  little 
brother ;  "  you'll  scare  him." 

"  Oh,  you  shut  up !  "  cried  Jim,  excited,  panting. 
He  saw  that  the  wolf  was  not  afraid  of  them,  for  it 
kept  at  an  irregular  dog-trot  only  a  short  way  ahead, 
once,  indeed,  so  near  that  Jim  saw  him  distinctly, 
grey,  lean,  and  shaggy,  his  red  tongue  lolling  out  of 
his  mouth.  And  it  seemed  to  Jim  that  the  old  wolf 
was  actually  laughing  at  them. 

"  Shut  your  mouth,  you  darn  fool ! "  he  cried,  in 
high  good  spirits. 

They  came  into  a  deep  arroyo,  and  the  walking 
was  hard.  Running  was  impossible.  The  fine  sand 
blew  into  their  faces.  It  filled  their  ears  and  hair. 

"  We've  run  into  a  sand-devil,  I  guess,"  said  Jim. 
[281] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

"  Take  my  hand;  keep  your  eyes  closed.  We'll  just 
stand  still  until  it  dies  down." 

Tiggy  slipped  his  hand  into  his  brother's,  and  his 
instant  obedience  showed  that  he  realised  their  danger. 
It  seemed  to  the  older  lad  that  the  heat  was  increas- 
ing. He  started  to  speak,  and  the  sand  blew  into  his 
mouth.  His  feet  were  sinking  deeper  and  deeper  be- 
cause of  the  drifts  blowing  up  behind  him.  "  Unless 
we  get  out  of  here  pretty  quick,"  he  thought ;  "  we'll 
be  swallowed  up." 

He  dropped  Tiggy's  nervous  little  hand,  and  made 
a  telescope  of  his  own  hands  while  he  surveyed  the 
landscape.  The  sun  was  reddish.  That  was  what 
Juan,  the  old  wooddigger,  had  been  trying  to  tell 
him.  Far  off  in  the  sky  back  of  the  town  he  saw  a 
murky,  dun-coloured  cloud  moving  rapidly,  and  in- 
creasing in  size  as  it  rose  above  the  houses.  A 
sensation  of  indescribable  terror  filled  the  boy's 
heart.  He  had  never  seen  anything  in  nature 
so  angry  before.  The  thunder  storms  in  the  East 
had  been  full  of  grandeur,  but  this  cloud  was  only 
angry,  a  seething,  boiling  mass,  darkening  the  sky.  It 
spread  like  a  pall  above  Sahuaro,  shadowing  the  low, 
green  trees,  the  tiled  roofs.  The  little  town — his  town 
— was  doomed !  His  parents  and  Cozzens  and  Yucca, 
Haydon,  all,  would  be  killed!  He  had  a  moment  of 
wild  panic.  Was  there  no  way  to  warn  them?  Yet, 
as  he  watched,  on  the  extreme  further  side  of  the  town, 


CHAPTER    TWENTY 

the  red  tiled  roofs  and  trees  suddenly  shone  gay  in  a 
strip  of  sunlight.  The  simoon  was  passing  over  Sa- 
huaro.  He  saw  the  whole  town  once  more  bathed  in 
the  sunlight,  but  a  little  dim  as  if  in  a  light  fog.  His 
heart  seemed  bursting  with  joy  and  relief.  And  then 
awful  terror  seized  him  anew.  The  cloud  was  making 
straight  for  him  and  Tiggy !  It  was  flying  too  high, 
he  saw  now,  to  burst  above  the  Indian  village.  Some- 
thing pushed  against  his  knees,  whining  and  trem- 
bling like  a  huge  dog.  It  was  the  wolf  which  had  en- 
ticed them  on,  and  he  kicked  it  with  sudden  fury. 

"  Come  on,  we've  got  to  make  for  the  mountains  at 
once,  or  we'll  be  choked.  Keep  your  eyes  shut.  Here, 
wait  a  minute."  He  drew  out  his  handkerchief  and 
tied  it  over  Tiggy's  face. 

"  I  can't  breathe,"  the  little  fellow  protested. 

"  You've  got  to,"  said  Jim  grimly ;  "  breathe 
through  it."  He  jerked  his  brother's  jacket  off  of 
him,  and  tied  it  by  the  sleeves  over  his  head.  "  Push 
up  the  handkerchief  a  little  underneath.  Now  you  can 
get  air  all  right.  Stand  still  until  I  get  ready." 

He  remembered  that  Cozzens  had  told  in  such  a 
storm  as  this  men  wrapped  their  tent-blankets  over 
their  heads,  and  made  for  shelter.  They  started  on, 
Jim's  thought  for  himself  lessened  by  his  sense  of  re- 
sponsibility toward  Tiggy ;  and  Tiggy's  fear  quieted 
by  his  brother's  firm  grasp.  Straight  ahead  into  that 
blinding,  stinging  atmosphere  they  plunged,  sinking 
[283] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

ankle-deep  into  the  sand.  And  Jim  knew  that  in  a 
moment  more  that  angry,  boiling  cloud  would  burst 
above  them. 

From  his  doorway  Lispenard  had  been  watching  the 
panorama  on  the  desert  until  the  sand  began  to  whirl 
through  the  streets  of  the  town,  and  he  was  obliged  to 
go  within.  His  wife  came  in  from  her  marketing, 
laughing,  her  brown  hair  full  of  sand.  She  loved  the 
sense  of  blowing  and  excitement. 

"  Come  and  sit  down  here  with  me,"  he  called  to 
her ;  "  the  wind  has  reached  the  new  buildings,  and  see 
how  the  sand  is  beating  against  them." 

"  How  dark  it  is,  suddenly,"  she  cried.  "  I  wonder 
where  the  boys  are?  " 

"  They  are  either  with  Cozzens  or  Haydon  watch- 
ing the  storm,"  he  answered. 

They  saw  a  curious  brown  cloud  forming  in  the  sky 
near  the  horizon. 

"  I  never  saw  anything  so  wonderful,"  he  cried,  his 
eyes  bright  as  an  eagle's  in  his  fearlessness  of  the  ele- 
ments. "  Can  you  realise  that  this  terrible  storm  com- 
ing is  made  only  of  sand  and  wind  blowing  in  a  clear 
sky?" 

Adele  shook.  "  Come  away.  Don't  watch  it,  Theo- 
dore. Come  away.  I  wish  the  children  were  in." 

"  Think  of  riding  in  the  wind  like  that  cloud !  "  he 
cried.  "  It  is  dust,  not  rain,  as  if  the  genie  of  the 
earth  had  wrapped  itself  in  its  brown  mantle,  and  risen 


CHAPTER    TWENTY 

in  anger.  There's  another  idea  for  a  poem  I  shall  jot 
down  in  my  note-book  for  Tiggy  to  write  some  time," 
he  added,  smiling. 

"  No,"  she  said,  dragging  at  his  sleeve.  "  Come 
away,  dear."  Her  first  enjoyment  of  the  wild  excite- 
ment had  gone. 

But  the  cloud  passed  over  Sahuaro  and  burst  some- 
where out  on  the  desert  beyond  the  Indian  village, 
toward  the  mountains.  The  darkness  which  had  been 
suspended  over  the  town  was  gone,  and  the  sun  shone 
red  through  a  whirling  atmosphere.  Adele,  too, 
brightened,  and  resumed  her  sewing,  sitting  at  her 
husband's  side. 

They  were  surprised  when  they  glanced  up  at  the 
clock  and  saw  that  it  was  nearly  two. 

"  The  boys  have  stayed  out  somewhere  with  Coz- 
zens,"  he  said. 

"  Well,  I'll  get  us  a  little  lunch,  then,"  she  an- 
swered. 

"  You  sit  still,"  he  insisted ;  "  I  will  get  lunch  for  us 
myself." 

"  It  has  grown  cold,"  said  his  wife.  She  caught 
his  hand  and  pressed  it  to  her,  smiling.  "  You  are  not 
cold,  Theodore,  dear,  are  you?  Perhaps  we  had  bet- 
ter have  a  fire  in  here."  There  were  times  when  the 
sweet  motherliness  of  her  nature  seemed  to  overflow  to 
him,  and  the  tenderness  between  them  had  been  deeper 
since  her  return  home. 

[285] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

"  I  feel  that  separation  more  now  that  I  am  with 
you  than  I  did  even  when  away.  I  cannot  bear  to 
think  that  I  ever  left  you.  It  always  makes  me  sad  to 
think  that  I  was  away  from  you  when  you  were  ill  that 
time." 

He  could  only  kiss  her,  dumb  in  his  self-reproach  to 
think  he  had  caused  her  to  wound  herself. 

He  stirred  up  the  embers  of  the  morning's  fire,  and 
heaped  on  the  mesquite  wood.  Then  he  cleared  a 
space  on  his  writing-table,  and  brought  in  the  salad, 
and  mixed  it  there,  after  a  receipt  of  Cozzens's. 

"  He  used  to  make  it  for  me  when  I  was  ill,"  he 
told  her ;  "  there  ought  to  be  thirteen  different  things 
in  it,  but  I  have  only  six,  the  lettuce,  the  peppers,  the 
banana,  and  the  onion,  and  cucumber,  and  a  tomato." 

"  Oh,  that's  plenty !  "  cried  Adele.  She  had  little 
respect  for  Cozzens's  cooking. 

They  heated  the  water  over  the  fire  for  the  tea. 

"  Have  you  felt  older  since  the  boys  came  back?  " 
he  asked. 

"  Yes,"  she  confessed   deliciously ;  "  have  you?  " 

"  Mercy,  yes !  "  he  said. 

"  Isn't  it  terrible  ?  "  she  said. 

He  cut  the  loaf  of  French  bread  on  a  board  she  had 
brought  home  to  him  as  a  gift.  The  white  loaf  on  the 
dark  wood  with  its  garland  of  wheat,  and  the  words, 
Be  Thankful,  was  pleasing  to  him.  It  was  fine  and 
simple,  like  the  dignified  injunction  of  an  old  religion. 
[286] 


CHAPTER    TWENTY 

From  the  cupboard  above  the  fireplace  he  took  down 
an  old  blue  jar  filled  with  ginger. 

"  I  was  saving  that  as  a  treat  for  the  boys  Sunday 
evening  with  their  tea,"  she  protested.  "  Yah  Sin  " 
— their  Chinese  laundryman — "  gave  it  to  me  for 
Tiggy."  But  nevertheless  she  was  delighted  that  he 
should  remember  her  liking  for  the  dainty. 

It  was  the  first  time  since  the  boys'  return  that  they 
had  been  alone,  and  they  enjoyed  the  lunch  together 
as  if  it  had  been  a  lovers'  tryst. 

"  See  how  red  the  sun  is !  It  makes  me  think  of 
Indian  summer  days  at  home  when  the  sun  was  in  a 
haze  all  day  long,"  he  said,  a  happy  look  in  his  blue 
eyes.  "  How  beautiful  it  is !  " 

"  Yes,"  she  assented,  but  the  look  of  the  desert  be- 
gan to  appal  her,  and  she  sat  with  her  back  to  the 
window. 

The  wind  howled  and  shook  the  casements ;  the  sand 
began  to  drift  down  the  chimney,  and  made  a  fine  pat- 
ter on  the  fire. 

"Isn't  this  splendid!"  he  cried;  "isn't  it  fun!" 
They  had  finished  luncheon,  and  he  searched  among 
his  books  until  he  found  a  thin  old-fashioned  volume 
bound  in  maroon  watered  silk.  "  I'm  going  to  read 
you  Whittier's  «  Snow-Bound.'  " 

She  took  up  a  bedroom  slipper  she  was  making  for 
Tiggy.    "  If  I'm  to  hear  '  Snow-Bound  '  before  a  fire 
I  shall  be  the  house-mother  and  do  my  knitting." 
[287] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

Halfway  through  it  she  interrupted  him.  "  Don't 
you  think  it  is  horrid  for  a  woman  to  be  secretive?  " 

Lispenard  marked  the  page  in  the  book,  and  closed 
the  volume.  "  Adele,  there  isn't  a  book  in  my  library 
which  I  haven't  at  one  time  or  another  tried  to  read 
aloud  to  you,  and  which  hasn't  a  slip  of  paper  to  mark 
the  place  where  you  interrupted  me.  Who  is  it  you 
think  horrid?  I  know  a  woman  never  deals  in  abstrac- 
tions." 

"  It's  Yucca,"  she  confessed,  her  dimples  showing ; 
"  she  never  mentioned  that  first  night  Jarvey  Trent 
called  on  her  to  me.  I  wish  now  I  hadn't  told  her  I 
was  once  engaged  to  him." 

"  I  don't  think  they'll  ever  marry,"  Lispenard  an- 
swered. "  She  would  never  leave  Sahuaro,  and  Trent 
can't  change  his  way  of  doing.  He  was  always  set  in 
his  way." 

"  Theodore,"  she  said,  "  I  don't  care  how  beautiful 
all  the  men  in  the  world  think  her,  only  I  wish  I  were 
prettiest  to  you."  She  laid  her  hand  on  his  knee,  and 
lifted  her  face  to  kiss  him.  "  Can  you  imagine  we 
have  been  married  seventeen  years,"  she  continued; 
"  and  that  we  have  two  children  ?  It  seems  as  if  we 
were  only  just  engaged.  I  feel  as  if  there  were  only 
you  and  me,  and  Tiggy  and  Jim  were  apart  from  us." 

He  held  her  hand  closely  in  his  as  he  stared  out  of 
the  window  at  the  fiery  ball  of  the  sun  just  above  the 
university  buildings. 

[288] 


CHAPTER    TWENTY 

He  appreciated  her  sensitiveness  over  Trent's  de- 
votion to  a  woman  of  whom  she  had  always  been  jeal- 
ous. Nothing  appealed  more  to  his  tenderness  than 
Adele's  jealousy.  He  did  not  misunderstand  it,  but 
knew  it  was  only  a  form  of  self-depreciation.  As  far 
as  he  was  concerned  he  would  have  told  her  of  that 
afternoon  when  he  kissed  Miss  Armes's  hand,  but  he 
knew  it  would  only  wound  her.  Then,  too,  he  felt  that 
any  needless  confession  was  spiritually  undignified. 
All  explanations  between  them  were  petty  when  the 
great  fact  of  their  love  had  become  so  real  to  them  both. 

"  Look  at  the  sun,  my  dearest,"  he  said ;  "  did  you 
ever  see  anything  so  awful  and  majestic?  I  have  a 
sensation  of  almost  Biblical  simplicity,  as  if  the  Lord 
were  angry  with  us."  He  laughed  at  the  absurdity  of 
the  thought. 

They  thought  the  wind  blew  the  door  open,  but  it 
was  Cozzens  who  came  in,  red-faced  and  spluttering, 
and  shaking  the  sand  from  him. 

"  I  can't  tell  whether  you  remind  me  most  of 
Boreas,  or  a  Newfoundland  after  a  bath,"  said  his 
host.  "  Where  did  you  leave  the  boys  ?  " 

"  I  haven't  seen  them  all  day,  I  mean  not  since  early 
morning,"  he  answered.  "  Aren't  they  here  ?  " 

"  I  think  I  will  walk  out  and  get  them,"  Lispenard 
said,  suddenly  white ;  "  would  you  like  to  go  along 
with  me?    Any  errands  you  want  me  to  do  downtown 
for  you,  my  dear,"  he  added  to  his  wife. 
[289] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

"  Theodore,"  she  cried,  "  you  are  afraid." 

"  No,  no,"  he  answered. 

She  clutched  Cozzens  for  support.  "  Oh,  my  God !  " 
she  whispered. 

"  Adele,"  said  her  husband  sternly,  "  I  am  not 
frightened.  I  am  going  out  to  hunt  up  the  boys,  and 
we  will  all  be  back  in  a  little  while." 

Cozzens  forced  her  gently  to  a  seat.  "  Now,  lookye 
here,  don't  be  too  quick  about  getting  hysterical.  Just 
have  a  nippy,"  reaching  for  the  flask  in  his  hip- 
pocket,  "  and  keep  calm." 

The  two  men  hurried  away.  "  Look  for  Mr.  Trent. 
Perhaps  they  are  with  him,"  she  cried,  running  to  the 
door  after  them.  On  the  lounge  was  the  half-finished 
shoe  she  was  knitting  for  Tiggy.  She  took  it  up  and 
kissed  it. 

"  Mother's  darling,"  she  said,  weeping. 


[290] 


CHAPTER  XXI 

MIDNIGHT  came  and  went,  and  the  fury  of 
the  storm  prevented  any  search  being  made. 
The  Overland  train  did  not  arrive,  for  men 
could  not  face  the  storm  to  clear  the  tracks.    But  Coz- 
zens  took  courage  from  the  fact  that  the  wind  was 
steadily  decreasing  since  the  afternoon.     The  neigh- 
bours, kind  and  concerned,  fought  their  way  over  and 
promised  to  begin  the  search  as  soon  as  the  storm  died 
down,  and  returned  to  their  own  homes. 

In  Lispenard's  house,  he  and  his  wife,  and  Miss 
Armes  and  Cozzens,  sat  about  the  study  table.  The 
three,  inspired  by  his  example,  made  a  determined 
effort  at  self-control. 

"  Many  a  boy  has  had  to  rough  it,  my  darling,"  he 
told  his  wife ;  "  it  won't  hurt  them  to  stay  out  all 
night.  They  have  probably  sought  shelter  in  the 
mountains." 

"  I  was  lost  once  for  three  days  with  my  father,  but 
we  escaped,"  said  Miss  Armes.  She  was  looking  over 
her  friend's  work-basket.  "  What  is  this  red  and  yel- 
low calico  for?  " 

"  It's  some  little  dresses  for  the  Indian  children. 
Didn't  the  society  give  you  any  to  make  ?  "  Mrs.  Lis- 
penard  answered. 

[291] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

"  Perhaps  that's  what  they  sent  me.  I  haven't 
opened  the  bundle.  The  women's  sewing  guild  is  the 
only  tyrannical  feature  of  your  church,  Mr.  Lispen- 
ard,"  she  rejoined,  threading  a  needle.  "  I'll  help 
make  these.  Is  there  an  extra  thimble  here  ?  " 

"  In  a  box  on  my  bureau,"  said  Mrs.  Lispenard, 
"  my  gold  thimble.  I'll  get  it  for  you." 

The  two  sat  and  sewed,  watched  by  Cozzens,  who 
smoked  steadily,  and  Lispenard,  who  half  smiled,  but 
with  set  jaw. 

Adele  looked  younger  and  more  vivid  than  Yucca. 
Her  eyes  shone ;  the  bright  colour  flamed  in  her  cheeks 
and  lips,  and  her  brown  hair  curled  all  about  her  face 
in  lovely  disorder.  She  and  Jim  were  so  alike  that  Lis- 
penard could  not  glance  at  her  without  a  contraction 
of  the  heart.  Suddenly  she  frightened  them  all  by 
rising  and  flinging  herself  into  his  arms. 

"  I  can't  help  crying,  Theodore,"  she  sobbed ;  "  but 
Yucca  has  made  both  the  sleeves  for  the  same  arm." 

Lispenard  looked  over  his  wife's  head  as  it  lay  on  his 
breast. 

"  She  will  rip  it  out  and  do  it  over  again,"  he  said. 

"  I  have  it  nearly  ripped  out  now,"  their  guest 
hastened  to  say. 

Adele  raised  her  head,  and  felt  in  her  husband's 

coat  for  his   handkerchief   to   wipe   her    eyes.      She 

smiled  at  the  three  who  were  watching  her  anxiously. 

"  Never  mind,  I'll  rip  it  out,  Yucca.    I  suppose  I  am 

[292] 


CHAPTER    TWENTY-ONE 

absurd  about  the  boys,  and  I  know  you  said  only  the 
other  day,  Theodore  dear,  that  I  must  expect  them  to 
have  adventures,  and  get  into  trouble  more  or  less  like 
all  boys." 

"  That's  the  stuff,"  said  Cozzens  huskily ;  "  it  '11 
make  men  of  them.  Lord  above,  if  you  could  know 
what  I've  been  through !  And  I've  learned  Jim  how 
to  look  out  for  himself.  There  aint  a  thing  about  the 
desert  from  a  redskin  to  a  rattlesnake  that  I  haven't 
given  him  points  on." 

"  I  know  it,"  she  agreed,  comforted ;  "  and  I  always 
feel  that  Jim  will  look  out  for  Tiggy." 

It  was  half-past  one  o'clock,  and  the  lamp  was  go- 
ing out. 

"  The  one  in  the  kitchen  is  filled,"  said  Mrs.  Lis- 
penard,  and  her  husband  went  out  and  brought  it  in. 

"  I  told  Trent  he  had  no  business  to  start  out  by 
himself.  When  the  ponies  turn  tail  to  the  wind  and 
won't  budge,  a  man  isn't  going  to  accomplish  any- 
thing," growled  Cozzens ;  "  and  he's  wearing  himself 
out  for  nothing,  and  will  be  a  lady  on  our  hands  to- 
morrow when  we  most  need  him,  damned  fool !  "  The 
big  fellow  was  unable  to  sit  still  in  his  nervous  desire 
for  sleep.  He  twitched  and  turned  like  a  restless 
animal,  caged,  his  eyes  half-closed.  He  had  smoked  to 
many  cigars  that  his  tongue  was  burned. 

"  Hadn't  you  better  lie  down,  and  try  to  get  a  little 
nap  ?  "  Yucca  suggested  gently. 
[293] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

"  Too  nervous  to  sleep,"  he  growled,  turning  his 
irritable  eyes  upon  her.  Anxiety  always  expressed 
itself  in  irritation  in  Cozzens.  Nevertheless  he  got  up 
and  rolled  himself  down  on  the  lounge. 

Mrs.  Lispenard,  with  her  exquisite  housewifely 
neatness,  went  into  the  boys'  bedroom  and  came  out 
with  a  pillow  in  a  clean,  cool  linen  slip,  and  put  it 
under  his  head.  "  It  is  more  comfortable  than  the  em- 
broidered one,"  she  said.  It  was  Tiggy's  little  pillow, 
and  she  knew  that  the  child  would  like  to  have  his  dear 
Cozzens  lie  on  it. 

It  was  after  two  when  Trent  finally  came  in,  and 
staggered  rather  than  walked  to  the  chair  Lispenard 
pushed  toward  him. 

"  I  heard  from  the  husband  of  that  old  squaw  who 
makes  the  pottery  that  they  had  seen  the  boys  shortly 
before  noon  starting  for  the  mountains,"  he  said. 

"  Then  they  are  safe ! "  cried  Lispenard. 

"  It  has  taken  me  all  this  time  to  get  to  the  Indian 
village  and  back.  The  wind  was  with  me  coming 
home,  but  I  wonder  now  how  I  ever  reached  there." 

"  I  wonder,  too,"  said  his  host.  He  had  been  on  the 
point  of  starting  with  his  friend,  but  Cozzens  had  re- 
strained him  from  the  folly.  If  the  boys  were  in  the 
Indian  village  they  would  have  managed  to  get  home, 
he  argued  sensibly,  but  Trent  was  disposed  to  follow 
his  own  judgment,  and  would  not  be  dictated  to.  He 
had  gone  eager  to  relieve  his  friends'  anxiety  as  soon 
[294] 


CHAPTER    TWENTY-ONE 

as  possible  should  the  children  by  any  chance  have  de- 
cided to  remain  there  over  night. 

Now,  after  the  stress  and  strain,  he  almost  collapsed 
in  his  chair.  He  felt  that  he  had  been  riding  through 
an  inferno.  The  room  was  dark  to  him,  and  in  the 
dimness  he  saw  Yucca's  face,  pale  and  far  away,  as  if 
he  saw  her  in  a  dream.  He  knew  that  unless  he  con- 
trolled himself  he  would  call  to  her  by  name.  Her 
eyes  drew  him.  He  wanted  to  get  nearer,  and  let  his 
head  fall  on  her  breast,  and  so  go  to  sleep.  To  save 
himself  from  absurdity  he  staggered  to  his  feet,  his 
eyes  dazed. 

"  Open  the  door,"  he  said ;  "  it's  close  in  here."  He 
got  out  on  the  porch,  and  leant  against  the  railing. 
The  wind  had  changed,  and  where  he  stood  it  was 
comparatively  quiet.  Yet  without  this  haven  there  was 
a  roaring  in  the  air  and  it  was  hot  with  an  electrical 
quality  which  imparted  a  sensation  of  creaking  to  his 
eyelids. 

The  other  three  followed  him  out,  leaving  Cozzens 
asleep  on  the  lounge. 

"  The  wind  no  longer  howls  as  it  did,"  spoke  Mrs. 
Lispenard ;  "  and  it  is  getting  warm.  We  none  of  us 
seemed  to  realise  it,  did  we?  And  only  this  noon  we 
sat  by  the  fire,  Theodore." 

"  Yes,  my  darling,"  he  answered. 

"  Isn't  it  strange  to  think  we  can't  even  see  Santa 
Ines,  it  ij  so  dark.  But  I  can  hear  the  old  bronze  bells 
[295] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

ring  now  and  then  above  the  wind,  can't  you?  How 
did  you  get  home,  Jarvey?  "  she  continued. 

"  I  floundered  along  somehow,  and  then  there  were 
the  lights  in  the  depot.  Haydon  is  a  good  soul.  He 
had  a  lamp  in  every  window,"  he  answered. 

"  Someone  told  me  Haydon  cried  when  he  heard 
about  the  boys,"  she  said  in  an  awed  tone,  as  if  the 
greater  grief  were  the  station-master's,  and  not  hers. 

Miss  Armes  looked  at  her  anxiously.  She  did  not 
act  naturally,  and  she  would  rather  that  Adele  would 
cry  again. 

"  Doesn't  it  seem  very  warm  to  you?  "  asked  Mrs. 
Lispenard.  Mercifully  she  did  not  think  that  such 
heat  meant  thirst,  thirst  in  the  desert  for  those  who 
were  lost. 

Trent's  head  cleared,  and  he  was  conscious  that 
the  woman  he  loved  stood  near  him.  He  thought  of 
his  poor  friends'  sons,  and  sighed  heavily.  Now  if 
ever  he  longed  for  the  comfort  of  Yucca's  love.  Let 
her  give  it  to  him  now,  and  he  would  pay  the  price. 
He  would  stay  in  this  devil's  country  if  she  would  but 
once  kiss  him.  He  did  not  care  much  what  happened 
except  that  he  wanted  her.  He  would  drink  sweetness 
from  her  lips,  and  forget  the  terrible  thought  that 
burned  into  his  brain :  the  thought  of  two  boys  dying 
of  thirst  in  the  desert.  The  door  swung  to  behind 
them,  and  it  was  dark  out  there  on  the  porch.  But 
somewhere  in  that  darkness  she  was,  cool  in  her  white 
[296] 


CHAPTER    TWENTY-ONE 

gown,  lovely.  In  a  moment  she  would  be  in  his  arms 
again,  with  her  cheek  to  his.  He  put  out  his  hand. 
"  Yucca,"  he  said  hoarsely. 

It  did  not  strike  either  Lispenard  or  his  wife  as 
strange  that  he  should  call  her  by  name. 

"  I  don't  believe  she's  here,"  said  Mrs.  Lispenard ; 
"  she's  gone  in,  I  guess."  As  she  spoke  she  opened  the 
door,  and  the  light  streamed  out,  and  showed  that  they 
three  were  alone. 

Trent  and  Lispenard  followed  her  back  into  the 
house.  Miss  Armes  was  not  there,  but  Adele  resumed 
her  sewing  as  if  she  had  already  forgotten  her  friend's 
absence.  Cozzens  still  slept  peacefully  as  a  child. 
The  heat  was  making  his  sandy  hair  curl  about  his 
forehead. 

The  other  two  men  maintained  silence.  They  had 
reached  the  point  when  endurance  was  all  that  was  left 
to  them. 

A  little  later  Miss  Armes  returned,  sand  in  her 
golden  hair,  in  the  ruffles  of  her  gown,  drenched  with 
it  as  though  it  had  been  rain. 

"  Where  have  you  been  ?  "  asked  Lispenard,  trying 
to  smile  at  her. 

Trent  eyed  her  grimly. 

"  I  thought  that  you  must  have  some  sleep  before 

morning,"  she  told  Lispenard ;  "  and  I  went  home  for 

something  the  doctor  gave  me  when  my  father  was 

killed  so  I  would  go  to  sleep  nights.     But  what  you 

[297] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

said  comforted  me,  and  did  me  more  good  than  this,  I 
know." 

"  I  remember,"  answered  Lispenard,  and  his  eyes 
lighted  for  the  first  time  that  night ;  "  I  said  he  went 
home  a  spirit  armed  and  victorious.  The  thought  is 
always  visual  to  my  imagination,  like  a  painting." 

"  It  is  only  three  hours  before  dawn,"  said  Mrs. 
Lispenard,  looking  at  the  clock.  "  Yucca  is  right. 
You  must  get  some  sleep." 

Miss  Armes  went  out  into  the  dining  room,  and 
brought  back  a  glass  of  water  and  a  spoon.  "  It  can't 
hurt  you,"  she  said,  pouring  some  drops  from  the 
bottle. 

"  Yes,  dearest,  you  must  lie  down,"  coaxed  his  wife; 
and  Lispenard  yielded,  and  took  the  glass  of  water 
and  then  went  into  his  bedroom.  "  I  wish  you  would 
come  and  sit  down  beside  me,  Adele,"  he  said  with  sud- 
den wistfulness.  She  went  in  with  him,  and  put  her  arm 
across  him,  as  she  sat  at  the  head  of  the  bed.  She  was 
very  tired,  and  she  rested  her  head  against  his  pillow ; 
the  tears  rolled  down  her  face,  but  she  dared  not  stir 
to  wipe  them  away  for  fear  of  disturbing  him. 

Yucca  stepped  to  their  door  and  listened.  "  I  gave 
her  some,  too,  in  that  glass  of  water,"  she  said,  going 
back  and  sitting  down  opposite  Trent. 

She  shaded  the  lamp  with  a  piece  of  paper  that  its 
light  might  not  waken  Cozzens. 

Trent  had  gone  into  the  boys'  room  and  washed  his 
[  898  ] 


CHAPTER    TWENTY-ONE 

hands  and  face,  and  brushed  some  of  the  sand  from  his 
clothes  and  hair.  He  still  looked  tired,  but  his  eyes 
were  bright  and  his  mouth  firm. 

His  companion  picked  up  her  sewing  again,  then  let 
it  drop. 

"  I  feel  as  if  all  were  dead  except  you  and  me,  and 
as  if  it  were  vanity  to  sew  on  clothes  for  the  living." 

"  You  did  not  wish  me  to  sleep,"  he  said ;  "  you 
did  not  offer  anything  to  me ;  you  wished  me  to  stay 
awake  with  you.  Were  you  lonely  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  answered.  Above  the  mantel  hung  the 
picture  of  the  two  little  princes  in  the  tower.  "  Mrs. 
Lispenard  always  thought  they  looked  like  the 
boys." 

He  nodded. 

"  When  I  was  coming  back,"  she  said ;  "  the  sky  was 
clearing,  and  the  moonlight  was  sifting  through  the 
sand  in  the  air  so  that  I  saw  the  cupola  of  Santa 
Ines." 

He  smiled.  He  saw  her  kind  intention  to  keep  him 
diverted  from  thought  of  the  lost  children. 

An  hour  passed.  She  sewed  a  little,  and  glanced 
over  a  page  of  Lispenard's  manuscript  which  lay  on 
the  desk. 

"  He  writes  a  beautiful  hand,"  she  remarked. 

The  old  jealousy  smouldered  in  her  lover's  eyes.  He 
wished  no  more  of  her  sweet  reserve. 

"  Kiss  me,  Yucca,"  he  said  gloomily. 
[299] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

She  drew  her  hand  away.  "  Oh,  hush,  hush !  "  she 
cried ;  "  how  can  you  when  a  matter  of  life  or  death 
hangs  over  this  house  ?  " 

"  It  is  a  matter  of  life  or  death  to  me,"  he  answered, 
his  gloomy  eyes  fixed  on  her. 

"  Oh,  hush !  "  she  said  again. 

"  You  will  not  kiss  me?  "  he  said,  and  waited  for  her 
reply.  Suddenly  he  made  a  gesture  as  if  she  stifled 
him,  and  he  wanted  to  push  her  away.  "  No,  I  do  not 
want  you  to  kiss  me.  Why  should  I  desire  you  to  if 
you  do  not  love  me  enough  to  be  my  wife?  I  would 
like  our  love  to  be  a  thing  of  every  day,  comforting  to 
us  both,  a  refuge  in  each  other  if  we  have  trouble,  but 
you —  He  looked  away  from  her. 

From  above  the  mantel  the  two  little  princes  in  their 
stricken  embrace  looked  down  upon  them. 

"  You  are  a  strange  woman,"  he  said ;  "  I  once 
loved  Mrs.  Lispenard,  that  I  know.  She  was  not  for 
me,  and  my  way  was  clear.  But  as  for  you  who  will 
not  marry  me  nor  yet  will  let  me  go,  what  sort  of  love 
is  that?" 

The  veering  wind  blew  the  sand  in  the  door  again, 
and  he  rose  to  close  it,  stepping  softly  so  as  not  to 
waken  Cozzens. 

She  had  been  right.  The  moon  was  up,  ghostly  as 
in  a  fog,  but  he  could  see  the  cupola  of  the  Santa  Ines 
mission.  He  shut  the  door  and  returned  to  her. 

"  You  do  not  care.  Lispenard  was  right  when  he 
[300] 


CHAPTER    TWENTY-ONE 

wrote  that  sonnet.  You  are  like  the  desert.  Love 
comes  and  goes  in  your  heart  as  this  wind  blows, 
now  here,  now  there,  and  no  man  can  tell  where,  and 
he  is  lost.  Like  him,  I  have  found  you  out.  You  are 
a  sorceress  as  the  desert  is  a  sorceress.  Its  beauty  is  an 
illusion,  a  chimera.  And  so  I  swear  are  you.  He  saw 
you  through  the  veil  of  poetry.  I  know  my  friend. 
God  forgive  me  that  I  once  condemned  him  for  it. 
And  I  let  my  secret  longing  for  some  affection  in  this 
world  invest  you  with  those  qualities  which  make  a 
woman  sweet  and  tender,  clinging  to  the  man  she 

loves "     He  paused,  choking  with  emotion. 

She  regarded  him  as  if  she  could  scarcely  believe  she 
heard  aright.  She  remembered  her  serene  life  until  he 
had  come  to  trouble  it,  the  restlessness  he  had  brought 
into  it,  and  his  determination  to  marry  her  and  take 
her  from  her  home.  Oh,  had  she  been  false  to  that 
better  love  which  was  her  friendship  for  Lispenard? 
It  was  Trent  who  had  put  evil  into  her  mind.  Never 
had  her  thoughts  been  disloyal  to  Adele.  How  had  he 
dared  to  say  such  a  thing  to  her  ?  She  raised  her  eyes 
to  his,  and  he  encountered  in  her  again  that  implacable 
pride  in  which  she  resembled  her  father.  His  eyes 
were  level  with  her  own.  She  meant  to  show  him 
her  anger,  but  instead  she  found  herself  impressed  by 
the  sincerity  of  his  own  gaze.  Here  was  a  man  who 
would  not  deviate  from  what  he  believed  right.  Her 
face  flushed;  her  own  eyes  fell  from  his.  She  re- 
[301] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

membered  Lispenard's  kiss  upon  her  hand.  Was  that 
no  disloyalty  to  Adele? 

He  saw  her  pride  vanish  in  timidity,  the  colour  flame 
bright  in  her  face,  and  he  was  won  to  tenderness.  He 
rose  and  drew  nearer  her.  In  another  moment  he  might 
have  taken  her  in  his  arms,  but  she  raised  her  hand  in 
protest.  "  No,  no;  not  here." 

It  was  the  instinctive  self-sacrifice  of  the  natural 
woman  to  forego  personal  happiness  while  anyone 
she  loved  was  in  trouble.  But  he  did  not  understand 
this,  and  would  have  put  her  hand  aside. 

"  No,"  she  cried  again,  desperate  to  escape  him ;  "  I 
do  not  love  you." 

They  had  been  but  half  conscious  of  the  fact  that 
Cozzens  was  breathing  quickly ;  then  he  began  to  gasp 
quickly  and  painfully.  They  turned,  startled,  and 
saw  him  tearing  ineffectually  in  his  sleep  at  his  collar. 

"  He  is  dreaming  of  thirst,"  she  cried,  and  ran  to 
him,  and  shook  him  awake,  trying  to  drag  him  to  a 
sitting  posture  with  all  her  slender  strength.  "  Coz- 
zens, dear,  wake  up,"  she  cried ;  "  you  are  here  with 
us ;  "  for  he  was  beginning  to  fight  her  away.  "  You 
are  only  dreaming." 

Then  he  realised  where  he  was,  and  sat  up,  his  eyes 
starting,  his  great  chest  heaving. 

"  It  is  the  heat,"  she  said ;  "  it  has  grown  very 
warm." 

He  took  the  glass  of  water  Trent  handed  him, 
[302] 


CHAPTER    TWENTY-ONE 

and  gulped  it  down,  and  then  drew  out  his  handker- 
chief and  wiped  the  perspiration  from  his  face  and 
throat. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  I  guess  it's  time  for  us  to  start." 

"  It  isn't  morning  yet,"  answered  Trent,  "  but  the 
moon  is  up." 

Cozzens  rose  and  blew  out  the  flame  of  the  lamp. 
After  the  first  instant  of  darkness  they  saw  the  win- 
dows were  grey.  He  was  right ;  it  was  time.  "  Where's 
Lispenard?  "  he  asked. 

They  told  him  asleep,  and  he  nodded  and  followed 
*" Yucca  out  into  the  kitchen.  The  agony  of  the  long 
night  was  over,  and  his  weariness  left  Trent  strangely 
quiescent.  While  the  other  two  prepared  breakfast, 
he  sat  in  a  chair  at  the  open  door  of  the  kitchen.  There 
was  no  coolness  in  the  air,  although  it  was  so  early  in 
the  morning.  He  saw  his  darling,  pale  from  her  long 
vigil,  with  Mrs.  Lispenard's  apron  tied  about  her  slen- 
der waist,  helping  Cozzens. 

While  they  were  at  breakfast  Lispenard  joined 
them.  "  My  wife  is  still  asleep."  His  rest  had  re- 
freshed him,  and  hope  had  risen  with  the  dying  down 
of  the  storm. 

Trent  saw  that  he  alone  of  them  was  almost  serene. 
"  He  has  faith,  he  believes  in  prayer,"  he  thought, 
"  while  I  think  it  will  be  only  a  matter  of  chance  if  his 
boys  are  found  alive." 

Cozzens  had  made  all  preparations  for  the  start  the 
[303] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

night  before.  Waiting  for  him  at  the  plaza  were  sev- 
eral picked  men.  Two  were  Indians,  and  the  others 
were  cowboys. 

He  gave  them  his  orders  like  a  general  sending  out 
scouts.  He  knew  the  trails  as  an  Indian  did.  When 
he  finished  his  directions  they  started  off  as  if  at 
the  signal  of  a  rifle.  He  told  Haydon  to  telegraph  to 
the  station  below,  and  have  them  warn  the  engineer  on 
the  Overland  to  keep  a  watchout  for  the  two  boys. 
Then  he  drew  Trent  aside.  "  We  will  find  them,"  he 
said.  "  You've  got  to  look  out  for  him,"  with  a  nod 
toward  Lispenard.  He  buttonholed  him,  pushing  him 
back,  that  there  should  be  no  danger  of  being  over- 
heard. "  You've  got  water.  Don't  give  more  than  a 
mouthful  at  a  time.  Jim  will  fight  for  it  like  a  devil. 
But  you  won't  find  them  where  I'm  going  to  send  you. 
If  they  got  no  further  than  the  first  mountains,  we'd 
see  them  coming  home  now.  I  think  they've  been  wan- 
dering all  night." 

Lispenard  betrayed  no  impatience  at  this  slight  de- 
lay. He  yielded  absolutely  to  Cozzens's  judgment. 
"  The  map  of  the  desert  will  have  to  be  changed  after 
this  storm,"  he  said,  turning  from  his  survey  of  the 
dreary  waste  as  his  two  friends  rejoined  him. 

"  There  was  one  such  storm  thirty  years  back,"  said 
Cozzens,  "  and  the  old  Vulture  trail  was  lost  in  one 
night  and  never  found  again."  He  swung  himself 
into  his  saddle. 

[304] 


CHAPTER    TWENTY-ONE 

He  and  Trent  had  to  wait  a  moment  for  Lispenard, 
who  mounted  stiffly. 

"  He's  strung  too  high,"  muttered  Cozzens.  "  Well, 
so  long,"  he  shouted,  and  was  off  like  a  shot. 

The  other  two  followed,  more  slowly.  They  passed 
the  Indian  village,  which  showed  little  sign  of  life. 
Sand  was  heaped  like  snow  against  the  mud  huts,  and 
over  the  long  green  rows  which  showed  the  irrigated 
land.  The  row  of  ash  trees  planted  as  a  wind-break 
was  almost  demolished. 

"  The  Indians  are  superstitious  about  these  si- 
moons," Lispenard  remarked.  "  When  the  sun  is  red 
they  think  it  poisonous  to  breathe  the  open  air,  and 
keep  indoors  for  several  days." 

Trent  wondered  how  Cozzens  prevailed  upon  the 
two  Indians  he  sent  out  to  go  in  the  face  of  such  a 
superstition.  Then  he  recalled  the  look  of  remorseless 
power  the  frontiersman  had  when  angry.  "  If 
they  had  refused,  he  would  have  shot  them,"  he 
thought. 

The  heat  enveloped  them  as  though  they  were  in  an 
oven.  He  looked  at  Lispenard  and  saw  his  eyes  were 
inflamed  with  alkali  dust.  His  own  eyes  hurt;  his 
nostrils  smarted  so  that  every  breath  he  drew  was  pain, 
and  his  ears  rang.  Yet  neither  of  them  had  been  out 
in  the  storm,  except  when  he  struggled  to  the  Indian 
village  and  back.  He  now  gave  up  hope,  believing 
that  the  boys  could  not  have  survived. 
[305] 


Before  them  stretched  the  open  desert,  trackless 
now  as  the  sea.  Sunken  bowls  appeared  where  it  had 
been  smooth,  old  boulders  were  exposed,  and  the  grease- 
wood  looked  like  miniature,  stunted  trees  half  buried 
in  sand.  The  mountains  rose  with  a  tremendous  sense 
of  power,  unbeautiful,  grim,  their  base  planted  in  the 
desert,  awful  in  their  endurance  against  the  raging 
storms.  Their  tops  were  reddened  by  the  rising 
sun. 

"  Look,"  said  Lispenard,  pointing  with  the  handle 
of  his  whip. 

Trent  saw  a  heap  of  uncovered  bones. 

"  Perhaps  the  good  father  at  the  Indian  mission 
thought  they  were  the  skeletons  of  heretics  when  he 
buried  them,  and  so  would  not  pronounce  the  blessing 
of  the  Church,"  Lispenard  said,  "  and  they  have  re- 
fused to  lie  still  in  an  unblessed  grave." 

Trent  shivered.  Never  had  he  known  such  an  un- 
holy dawn. 

Mrs.  Lispenard  did  not  waken  for  some  time  after 
the  men  had  gone.  "  I  have  been  dreaming  of  a  wolf," 
she  told  her  friend ;  "  was  it  not  strange  ?  I  kept 
dreaming  of  my  children  and  a  wolf.  Do  you  remem- 
ber that  night  when  Jarvey  Trent  was  here  two  years 
ago,  and  Theodore  laughed  and  said  I  had  discovered 
a  were- wolf  ?  " 

Yucca's  face  blanched. 

Adele  went  to  the  open  door.  She  saw  the  sand 
[306] 


CHAPTER    TWENTY-ONE 

drifted  like  snow  in  the  street  to  the  depth  of  several 
feet,  and  that  her  neighbour's  windows  across  the  way 
had  been  broken  by  the  wind.  Fruit  had  been  blown 
from  the  trees,  and  some  of  the  latter  even  were  up- 
rooted. A  scorching  breeze  blew  in  her  face.  "  How 
hot  it  is  after  the  storm !  I  wish  Theodore  were  in." 
Her  speech  showed  that  she  had  given  up  all  hope  for 
her  children.  Later  in  the  day  she  asked  her  friend  if 
she  remembered  the  old  nursery  tale  of  the  babes  in  the 
woods,  who  had  wandered  away  and  died,  and  each 
little  bird  of  the  forest  had  brought  a  leaf  in  its  beak 
to  cover  them  with.  "  But  there  are  no  leaves  here  in 
the  desert,"  she  said ;  "  no  leaves !  "  She  let  the  sewing 
she  was  trying  to  do  fall  into  her  lap.  The  thought  of 
the  forest  pleased  her.  "  You  have  never  really  been 
in  the  woods,  Yucca.  Do  you  know  how  beautiful 
they  are,  so  safe,  and  very  green — 

" '  To  walk  with  the  woman  I  love  in  the  autumn 
woods  ! '  Yucca  started.  It  was  as  though  Trent 
were  in  the  room  saying  those  words  again !  She  half 
raised  her  arms  and  let  them  fall,  with  that  sense  of 
emptiness  she  had  learned  to  know.  Suppose  he,  too, 
never  returned ! 

At  sunset  the  two  boys  had  not  been  found.  Coz- 
zens  waited  only  to  hear  this,  and  started  out  his  men 
again  on  fresh  horses,  and  went  himself. 

Lispenard  came  in  a  little  later.  He  sat  his  weary 
horse  a  moment,  as  he  looked  out  toward  the  west, 
[307] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

where  the  beautiful  buildings  of  the  university  were 
rising  against  the  flaming  sky. 

Trent  put  his  hand  on  his  shoulder  as  he  dismounted. 
"  Go  to  your  wife.  We  will  take  care  of  the  rest." 

A  night  of  heavenly  peace  and  coolness  succeeded 
the  day ;  the  dust  settled ;  the  stars  shone  soft  and  yel- 
low, and  at  eleven  o'clock  the  heavens  glowed  with  the 
rising  moon,  red  as  though  it  were  the  harvest 
times. 

Long  past  midnight  Trent,  who  had  continued  the 
search,  calling  until  his  voice  had  almost  gone,  listen- 
ing until  his  ears  were  hearing  sounds  which  existed 
in  his  imagination  only,  returned  to  Sahuaro. 

Lispenard  started  when  he  came  in,  but  collapsed 
again  in  his  chair,  as  he  read  fresh  denial  of  his  hope 
in  his  friend's  face.  Someone  brought  Trent  a  cup  of 
coffee.  He  drank  it  and  took  a  second  cup.  Then  he 
rose  to  start  out  again.  Lispenard  followed  him  to  the 
door,  and  wrung  his  hand  at  parting. 

Trent  reached  the  street  before  he  realised  that 
Yucca  had  not  been  in  the  room.  He  had  not  seen  her 
since  morning.  He  gazed  with  vague  foreboding  down 
the  street  toward  her  home;  then  he  left  his  horse 
standing,  and  went  to  see  where  she  was. 

There  was  no  reply  to  his  knock  upon  her  door. 

The  handle  turned  to  his  touch,  and  he  went  in  and 

called  her  name.    The  silence  was  fearful.    He  feared 

something  had  happened  to  her,  and  in  a  kind  of  panic 

[308] 


CHAPTER    TWENTY-ONE 

he  searched  the  house.  He  went  to  a  room  at  the  end 
of  the  hall  upstairs,  and  opened  the  door.  The  old 
Senora  Teresa  was  there,  telling  over  her  beads.  She 
was  so  deaf  she  did  not  hear  him.  He  shut  the  door 
and  went  away,  strangely  calmed. 


[309] 


CHAPTER   XXII 

TRENT  fancied  that  he  saw  a  person  moving  on 
the  moonlit  desert,  and  he  urged  his  horse  for- 
ward, although  he  knew  that  he  was,  in  all 
probability,  following  an  illusion.     Yet  all  at  once  the 
figure  was  nearer  than  he  thought,  and  he  saw  that  it 
was  Yucca. 

He  reached  her,  and  drew  up  his  horse.  "  Where 
are  you  going?  "  he  asked. 

She  turned,  startled.  "  I  am  going  to  find  the  boys. 
I  know  where  they  are."  She  pointed  toward  the 
mountains.  "  They  are  there,  near  that  cave  halfway 
up  the  trail." 

A  shiver  ran  over  him.  She  seemed  like  a  desert 
spirit  risen  to  show  him  the  way.  Her  solemnity,  her 
absolute  confidence,  impressed  him,  and  her  face,  up- 
turned to  his,  was  angelic  in  its  faith.  He  himself 
had  given  up  all  hope,  but  he  would  not  cross  her. 

"  Tell  me,  if  you  can,  just  where  you  mean,  my  dar- 
ling," he  said,  "  and  I  will  ride  on  and  look,  if  you 
will  only  go  home  and  rest;  but  Lispenard  and  I 
searched  there  early  this  morning.  I  went  nearly 
up  to  it,  and  called  and  called.  Cozzens  was  ex- 
plicit in  his  direction  not  to  escape  going  there.  Yet 
[310] 


CHAPTER    TWENTY-TWO 

he  agreed  with  me  that  had  they  been  so  near,  they 
would  have  been  making  their  way  home  then.  They 
would  not  perish  of  thirst  in  a  single  night." 

"  I  know ;  but  you  did  not  find  them.  You  did  not 
go  up  far  enough.  This  morning  Mrs.  Lispenard  told 
me  that  she  dreamed  last  night  that  the  boys  had  gone 
away  with  a  wolf,"  she  told  him. 

"  Yucca,  this  desert  drives  people  mad,  as  the  moon- 
light does  sailors.  Why  do  you  talk  of  wolves  ?  "  he 
said.  But  his  heart  sank.  What  if  he  had  been  care- 
less in  his  search  ?  He  wished  now  that  he  had  gone  up 
and  looked  into  the  cave. 

"  Don't  you  remember  the  night  you  and  I  sat  out 
here  in  the  desert?  "  she  said,  putting  her  hand  on  his 
bridle-rein  to  detain  him ;  "  and  I  pointed  out  Tiggy's 
wolf  to  you,  which  I  had  promised  him  to  feed  ?  It  has 
been  around  here  ever  since.  One  afternoon  I  followed 
it  to  its  cave,  for  it  is  quite  tame — more  like  a  dog  than 
a  wolf.  Perhaps  you  remember  that  time  Jim  and  Mr. 
Lispenard  and  you  and  I  had  our  picnic  in  the  moun- 
tain, the  day  we  went  up  to  the  Aztec  fort?  And  while 
we  were  at  lunch  I  pointed  out  that  we  were  sitting  in 
the  mouth  of  some  animal's  cave,  because  there  were 
little  bones  about?  " 

"  I  went  there  only  the  other  day,"  he  answered. 

He  had  gone  to  visit  that  place  where  they  had  once 

been,  and  to  recall  how  the  indigo  lizard  had  played 

about  her  white  fingers,  and  her  eyes  had  taken  on  the 

[311] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

colour  of  the  lizard.  "  Is  that  where  you  want  me 
to  go?  " 

She  did  not  take  her  hand  from  his  rein. 

"  Aren't  you  going  to  let  me  go,  my  darling?  "  he 
asked. 

She  shook  her  golden  head. 

"  Don't  you  want  me  to  go  ?  "  he  said.  His  heart 
beat  heavily. 

"  Does  this  mean  that  you  love  me  ?  "  he  ended 
humbly. 

She  let  go  the  rein  and  put  her  hand  up  against  his 
breast.  It  was  such  an  appeal  for  comfort  as  a  child 
might  have  made.  He  caught  the  little  hand  and 
kissed  it  with  passionate  tenderness ;  then  he  bent  down 
and  put  his  arm  about  her  and  kissed  her  mouth,  and 
their  lips  clung  together  in  longing. 

She  drew  away.  "  Ride  on,"  she  cried,  "  and  I  will 
follow  fast ! " 

"  I  will  fire  the  three  shots  if  I  find  them,"  he  said. 
It  was  the  signal  set  by  Cozzens.  He  felt  that  it 
would  be  cruel  to  insist  upon  her  returning  home  when 
she  was  so  anxious.  And,  moreover,  he  was  better  con- 
tent to  have  her  follow,  that  he  might  be  near  if  she 
needed  him. 

As  he  rode  on  he  kept  looking  back,  and  saw  her 

coming  after.     He  saw  her  wave  her  hand,  but  soon 

her  figure  merged  into  the  landscape,  and  he  could  not 

distinguish  her  from  the  cacti.    But  he  had  a  sense  of 

[312] 


CHAPTER    TWENTY-TWO 

great  peace  that  she  followed  him,  and,  although  he 
could  no  longer  see  her,  he  kept  looking  back.  He  had 
accepted  the  terrible  fact  that  the  boys  could  not  pos- 
sibly have  survived,  but  he  was  too  dazed  from  lack  of 
sleep,  and  too  weary,  to  feel  anything  very  keenly. 
He  kept  thinking  of  what  Lispenard  said, — that  he 
was  always  conscious  of  the  eternities  in  the  desert, — 
and  he  felt  as  if  he  and  Yucca  had  met  a  moment 
since  in  the  spirit  rather  than  in  the  flesh.  The  world, 
real  and  substantial,  as  he  had  known  it,  had  dissolved, 
and  his  opinions  and  resolutions  had  gone  with  it.  He 
no  longer  thought  of  their  marriage,  nor  of  her  going 
away  with  him. 

He  reached  the  base  of  the  mountain,  and  left  his 
horse  standing  while  he  ascended  the  familiar  trail. 
Above  him  the  moon  poured  her  blue  light  down  into 
that  rocky  chasm.  He  could  see  the  porphyry-red  of 
the  mountains,  the  lichens  yellow-grey.  Terrible  and 
desolate  country,  barren  mountains  upheaving  from  its 
breast,  and  voiceless  underground  rivers  sinking  to 
distant  seas!  As  he  climbed  the  ridge,  the  sense  of 
being  utterly  alone  weighed  upon  him.  The  warmth 
of  her  lips  no  longer  lay  upon  his;  humanity  seemed 
never  to  have  existed  here.  Yet  once  he  had  walked 
here  in  the  sunlight  with  a  girl  whose  eyes  had  been 
blue  as  the  indigo  lizard  playing  over  her  fingers! 
Now  he  wandered  like  a  disembodied  spirit.  He 
called  the  names  of  the  two  boys  again  and  again  as 
[313] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

he  nearcd  the  place  where  they  had  lunched  that  long- 
ago  day,  and  the  gigantic  red  walls  roared  the  echo 
back  at  him.  But  suddenly  a  cry  came  mingling  with 
the  echo  of  his.  It  was  like  a  miracle;  the  mountain 
rose  strong  and  benign;  the  cold  moonlight  grew 
tender.  The  place  had  been  a  tomb.  It  was  now  be- 
come an  asylum. 

He  saw  a  childish  figure  threading  its  way  down  over 
the  loose  stones  and  boulders  in  the  path,  almost  slip- 
ping in  its  eager  haste  to  reach  him.  It  was  Tiggy. 
"  Here  we  are !  "  he  cried. 

Trent  caught  him  up  in  his  arms,  in  his  delight. 

"Where  is  Jim?" 

"  He's  hurt  his  ankle,  and  can't  come ;  but  he  heard 
you  shouting,"  answered  Tiggy.  He  had  grown  thin 
in  those  two  days,  and  Trent  could  feel  his  little  heart 
beating  like  a  bird's  with  excitement.  He  set  him 
down  on  his  feet,  and  gave  him  a  piece  of  bread  out  of 
the  lunch  he  carried  in  his  pocket.  Tiggy  ate  it  hun- 
grily, but  he  did  not  wish  anything  to  drink. 

"  We  found  water,"  he  said. 

"  I  want  you  to  go  back  and  tell  Jim  I  will  soon  be 
there,"  said  Trent ;  "  but  I  must  first  go  and  fire  off  a 
signal  to  let  them  know  you  are  found.  If  I  fired  here, 
I'm  afraid  the  sound  would  be  lost  in  the  moun- 
tains." 

Tiggy  demurred.  "  You  will  lose  us  again !  I  will 
go  with  you." 

[314] 


CHAPTER    TWENTY-TWO 

"  No ;  Jim  will  become  anxious,  and  think  something 
has  happened  to  you.  Run  back,"  Trent  insisted,  and 
stood  still  a  moment  to  watch  him  start. 

Every  few  steps  Tiggy  paused  to  look  around. 
"  You  will  lose  us  again !  "  he  shouted  frantically. 
"  Why  don't  you  come  with  me?  " 

"  Nonsense,  run  along,"  called  Trent,  feigning  a 
sternness  he  did  not  feel,  as  he  watched  the  little  fel- 
low plodding  up. 

The  child's  nerves  were  shaken  beyond  his  control, 
and  Trent's  refusal  was  like  desertion,  and  flung  him 
into  a  panic.  Once  he  sat  down,  but  he  got  up  when 
Trent  called  to  him,  and  climbed  on.  This  friend 
whom  he  had  always  believed  so  kind  was  a  terrible 
tyrant.  Why  was  he  driving  him  back? 

"  He  will  lose  us  again,"  panted  Tiggy ;  "  he  will 
lose  us  again." 

A  shout  came  echoing  down  the  mountain.  Jim  was 
growing  anxious. 

"  Hurry  on,  Tiggy,"  called  Trent  again.  Then  he 
descended  to  the  base  of  the  mountains,  and  fired  three 
times.  It  was  the  signal  agreed  upon  should  the  boys 
be  found  living. 

The  desert  was  still  sleeping.  There  was  yet  no 
hint  of  dawn  in  the  sky.  He  strained  his  eyes,  but 
caught  no  glimpse  of  Yucca.  She  was  as  yet  too  far 
away. 

Three  distinct  shots  answered  his.  His  signal  had 
[315] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

been  heard,  and  a  little  later  that  second  signal  was  an- 
swered by  one  yet  more  distant.  Lispenard  must  soon 
hear  the  good  news. 

The  boys  were  found. 

Now  that  that  blessed  fact  was  established,  his  mind 
turned  from  them  to  Yucca.  As  he  ascended  the  trail 
again,  he  found  himself  talking  aloud  to  her,  as  though 
she  were  there,  murmuring  her  name.  Endearments 
rushed  to  his  lips.  It  was  she  who  had  saved  the  boys 
— his  darling,  with  her  belief  in  dreams  and  visions. 
Were-wolves !  Trent  laughed  aloud. 

"  Ha,  ha,  ha !  "  came  back  the  echo. 

It  was  as  though  a  Titan  joined  in  his  mirth,  and 
the  rocks  further  away  reverberated  faintly.  The 
place  he  thought  a  tomb  was  become  a  refuge,  and  now 
it  rang  with  laughter.  He  was  light-headed  from  fa- 
tigue and  loss  of  sleep.  But  he  was  sobered  when  he 
finally  reached  Jim,  and  realised  anew  that  the  boys 
were  saved. 

Jim  sat  leaning  against  the  granite  wall,  his  white 
face  uplifted  eagerly,  his  hand  outstretched.  "  I 
thought  someone  would  come,"  he  said  simply.  His 
boyish  bravado  was  gone.  He  seemed  years  older  for 
the  terrible  experience  he  had  undergone. 

Trent  himself  was  deeply  moved  as  he  wrung  the 
boy's  hand.  "  What's  this  Tiggy  tells  me  about  your 
ankle?  " 

"  Oh,  I've  hurt  it ;  nothing  serious.  Where's  Coz- 
[316] 


CHAPTER    TWENTY-TWO 

zens  ? "   Jim  asked,  scornful  to  make  much  of  his 
wound. 

"  He's  coming.  Didn't  you  hear  my  signal  ?  It 
was  answered,"  replied  Trent.  "  Let  me  look  at  your 
foot." 

But  Jim  refused.  "  Cozzens  '11  bind  it  up  in  a  jiffy 
when  he  comes." 

At  last  the  dawn  was  breaking,  and  in  the  strange, 
vibrant  light  of  coming  day  and  vanishing  moonlight 
he  could  see  the  boy  plainly,  splendid  in  the  haggard- 
ness  which  brought  out  lines  of  strength  and  maturity 
in  his  face.  He  thanked  God  that  this  boy  had  been 
spared  to  Lispenard.  He  fed  him  and  Tiggy  bits  of 
bread  soaked  in  wine  and  water. 

"  I  wish  you'd  give  me  another  piece,"  said  Jim. 
"  I'll  eat  it  slow.  We're  almost  starved.  I  bet  Coz- 
zens put  you  up  to  giving  me  next  to  nothing.  I've 
heard  him  talk." 

"  He  warned  me  to  look  out  for  you,  that  you'd 
fight  like  a  devil,"  Trent  told  him,  and  the  boy  laughed 
weakly.  He  looked  as  if  he  had  been  through  a  violent 
sickness.  His  face  was  white,  his  eyes  inflamed,  and 
he  complained  of  a  ringing  in  his  ears.  "  It's  the 
sand,  I  guess,"  he  said ;  "  I  hope  I  won't  be  deaf." 

Tiggy,  fully  calmed,  put  his  hand  on  Trent's  knee, 
and  looked  up  into  his  face,  smiling.  "  He's  in  there," 
he  said,  pointing  to  the  cave. 

"  What  does  he  mean  ?  "  Trent  asked. 
[317] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

"  Oh,  he  means  the  wolf,"  Jim  answered. 

Trent  was  not  a  particularly  imaginative  man,  but 
a  thrill  ran  over  him.  Was  there  some  truth  in  all 
this  talk  of  dreams?  Had  not  Yucca  told  him  that 
Mrs.  Lispenard  dreamt  her  children  were  with  a  wolf? 

He  was  conscious  that  Tiggy  was  calling  at  the 
mouth  of  the  cave,  but  he  was  as  one  paralysed  himself, 
and  could  not  move.  The  only  horror  of  the  super- 
natural he  had  ever  experienced  fastened  him  to  the 
place  with  invisible  chains.  And  as  if  he  were  dream- 
ing, he  heard  Tiggy  coaxing  gently: 

"  Come,  Lupus,  Lupus.     Come  on  out." 

"  I  named  him,"  said  Jim  in  an  aside.  "  It's  Latin, 
you  know.  It's  my  joke  on  Tiggy.  He  doesn't  know 
it  means  just  wolf,  and  nothing  else." 

Trent  stared  helplessly  at  him.  Were  both  the  boys 
mad,  or  was  he?  He  had  never  really  credited  the 
story  of  Tiggy 's  pet. 

"  Lupus,  Lupus,"  said  the  little  fellow. 
A  pointed  face,  grey  as  the  dawn,  was  thrust  out 
from  the  cave  along  the  ground.  The  eyes  were 
bright  and  cunning;  the  head  had  the  lean  fierce- 
ness of  all  desert  things.  And  yet  Trent  could  have 
sworn  those  ferocious  eyes  were  almost  roguish,  and  he 
found  himself  staring  into  them,  fascinated,  breath- 
less. Thus  a  moment  passed,  and  suddenly  the  head 
was  raised,  and  a  shaggy  form  went  by  him  like  a 
streak,  and  vanished. 

[318] 


CHAPTER    TWENTY-TWO 

"  See,"  said  Tiggy,  holding  up  his  finger ;  "  Lupus 
has  gone." 

Trent  took  a  swallow  of  the  wine  mixed  with  water, 
which  he  had  brought  for  the  boys.  This  night  was 
proving  too  much  for  his  nerves,  and  he  felt  that  his 
own  identity  was  at  the  vanishing  point. 

"  We'd  have  been  dead  now,  I  guess,  Mr.  Trent,  if 
it  hadn't  been  for  him,"  said  Jim  solemnly,  still  awed 
by  the  dangers  they  had  encountered.  "  Did  you  see 
that  cloud  coming  ?  It  burst  right  over  us.  I  thought 
we  would  choke  to  death." 

"  I  didn't  see  Lupus,  for  Jim  tied  a  handkerchief 
over  my  face,"  put  in  Tiggy ;  "  but  something 
kept  pressing  against  me  as  if  it  were  frightened,  too, 
and  I  felt  with  my  hands  and  caught  his  fur." 

"  I  knew  then  we'd  just  got  to  stick  to  him,"  Jim 
continued.  "  Cozzens  always  told  me  if  I  were  in  trou- 
ble not  to  strike  out  for  myself  until  I  saw  what  the 
animals  were  going  to  do.  But  I  guess  he  never 
thought  we'd  be  following  a  wolf.  Anyway,  I'm 
pretty  sure  he's  half  dog." 

"  How  did  you  manage  to  see  him  in  all  that  blind- 
ing sand?  "  Trent  asked,  amazed. 

"  We  didn't,"  said  Jim,  "  but  he  stayed  with  us,  yet 
always  just  ahead,  leading." 

"  I  kept  my  hand  in  the  fur  at  his  neck,"  added 
Tiggy. 

"  When  we  finally  got  here,  we  just  lay  down  and 
[319] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

couldn't  move,  until  Tiggy  said  he  was  thirsty.  I 
knew  what  that  meant."  Jim  paused,  shuddering.  "  I 
knew  water  'd  got  to  be  found.  But  once  I  got  my 
bearings,  I  realised  where  we  were,  and  that  there  was 
a  water-pocket  up  the  mountain  a  way,  just  off  the 
trail.  So  I  made  Tiggy  stay,  and  started  out  to 
find  it." 

"  And  while  he  was  gone  lots  of  animals  went  by 
after  him,  and  a  jack-rabbit  came  in,  and  Lupus 
pounced  on  him  and  ate  him  up,"  said  Tiggy.  "  We 
ate  the  bones  and  crusts  I  brought  out  to  feed  the  wolf 
with." 

Belief  in  a  deeper  power  than  mere  chance  stirred  in 
their  listener.  Surely  a  divine  Providence  had  saved 
them  from  the  simoon.  A  wolf  had  led  them  to  this 
haven,  where  they  had  been  safe  all  that  day  and 
night,  while  the  terrible  gale  must  have  raged,  hot  as 
a  furnace  fire  over  and  about  them,  but  never  quite 
touching  them,  save  when  it  flung  a  handful  of  sting- 
ing sand  in  their  faces.  He  thought  of  the  animals 
which  had  skurried  by  them  up  the  trail,  seeking  ref- 
uge, as  in  a  greener  country  their  kind  fled  the  forest 
fires. 

"  How  did  you  hurt  your  ankle?  "  he  asked. 

"  I've  broken  it,  I  guess,"  Jim  answered ;  "  and  the 

skin's  all  scraped,  dragging  it  around.     I  fell  trying 

to  get  the  water,  and  my  leg  just  doubled  under  me. 

I  tell  you,  Mr.  Trent,  you  realise  what  a  wind  can  be 

[320] 


CHAPTER    TWENTY-TWO 

when  it's  strong  enough  to  lift  you  off  your  feet  and 
throw  you  down.  It  made  me  crazy-mad.  I  swore 
then  I'd  reach  that  water-pocket,  and  I  got  there, 
somehow." 

"  I  was  thirsty,"  said  Tiggy  placidly,  leaning 
against  their  friend.  He  was  so  tired  he  could  scarcely 
keep  his  eyes  open,  but  he  was  content,  and  very  proud 
of  Jim. 

The  dawn  was  banishing  the  moonlight.  Above 
their  heads  the  sky  seemed  very  distant,  and  a  pale, 
chill  blue. 

Jim's  voice  dropped  to  a  whisper,  and  the  look 
which  crept  into  his  eyes  told  Trent  that  the  boy  had 
known  blackest  horror. 

"  Once  Cozzens  found  a  prospector  lying  below 
that  water-pocket — dead  of  thirst;  and  his  fingers 
were  worn  to  the  bone  trying  to  get  to  it  over  the  rocks. 
He  had  torn  all  his  clothes  off  him,  too.  That's  the 
way  they  do.  I  found  a  tin  can  there,  and  I  drank  all 
I  could ;  and  then  I  got  in,  for  the  water  wasn't  deep 
at  that  season  of  the  year.  Then  I  filled  the  can  and 
started  back.  It  took  me  a  long  time  to  get  back,  try- 
ing to  keep  the  water  from  spilling,  and  having  a  sore 
ankle.  I  just  crawled  and  slid,  and  the  skin  is  all  off 
my  shoulders.  We  had  an  awful  night.  I  wrapped 
my  shoes  in  my  wet  coat,  for  the  leather  held  moisture, 
and  put  it  back  in  the  cave.  When  the  water  in  the 
can  gave  out  we  just  sucked  the  leather  in  my  shoes." 
[321] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

"  Then  in  the  morning  I  went  up,  for  Jim  was  too 
sore  to  move,"  said  Tiggy ;  "  but  I  didn't  fall." 

"  I  will  never  trust  him  again,"  said  Jim  angrily. 
"  I  told  him  to  take  only  ten  swallows,  and  to  come 
right  back  to  me  with  the  can.  The  wind  had  stopped 
blowing,  and  I  knew  he  was  safe  enough.  He  came 
down  acting  queer,  just  like  a  drunk  man.  Why  he 
didn't  spill  all  the  water,  I  don't  know.  After  a  while 
he  lay  down  and  went  to  sleep.  And  I  slept,  too,  most 
of  the  morning.  I  was  going  to  send  him  home  for 
help,  but  I  was  afraid  to.  I  couldn't  seem  to  make  him 
wake  up.  So  I  kept  waiting  and  listening  all  day, 
thinking  someone  would  come,  until  it  got  too  late  to 
start.  Then  I  had  to  send  Tiggy  again  for  more 
water.  But  to-morrow  morning  I  was  going  to  man- 
age to  crawl  down.  I  thought  if  the  wolf  could  get 
along  on  three  legs,  I  could  with  one  and  two 
arms." 

He  nodded  solemnly.  "  You  needn't  have  worried. 
I'd  have  found  something  to  drink,  somehow,  even  if 
I'd  had  to  dig  to  water  with  my  fingers,  or  I'd  smashed 
a  bull  cactus  with  a  stone  and  made  Tiggy  eat  the 
pulp." 

"  Don't  talk  any  more  about  it  now,  Jim,"  said 
Trent,  seeing  that  the  boy  was  becoming  exhausted 
with  excitement.  "  Let's  think  about  getting  you 
home."  He  felt  that  he  could  never  forgive  himself 
for  not  looking  further  up  the  trail  the  morning  be- 


CHAPTER    TWENTY-TWO 

fore,  in  the  first  part  of  his  and  Lispenard's  search. 
He  had  shouted,  but  they  must  then  have  been  asleep. 

"  I  guess  Cozzens  '11  come  pretty  soon,"  said  Jim. 
He  hesitated  a  moment.  "  How's  mamma  taking  it?  " 

"  She'll  be  all  right  now,"  answered  Trent  cheer- 
fully. "  Now,  Jim,  I'm  going  to  leave  you  for  a  while. 
I  must  meet  Miss  Armes.  It  was  she  who  sent  me.  She 
was  walking,  while  I  had  my  horse  and  reached  you 
first.  I'm  going  to  make  you  a  bit  more  comfortable 
now."  He  took  off  his  coat  and  folded  it,  and  put  it 
gently  beneath  the  injured  ankle. 

"  Oh,  pshaw !  "  Jim  protested ;  "  you  don't  have  to 
molly-coddle  me.  You'd  better  take  Tiggy  down  with 
you.  I  don't  mind  being  left,  but  send  Yucca  up  to 
me  as  soon  as  she  comes,  won't  you?  And  I  guess  I'll 
take  something  more  to  eat." 


[323] 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

WHEN  Trent,  carrying  Tiggy  in  his  arms, 
reached  the  open  desert  at  the  foot  of  the 
mountain  once  more,  the  sky  was  warming, 
and  the  moon  was  a  ghost  of  silver  transparency  in  the 
blue.  The  air  was  so  rarefied  as  to  seem  almost  breath- 
less. Happiness  had  steadied  his  nerves  and  cleared 
his  mind.  He  no  longer  thought  of  himself  and 
Yucca  as  disembodied  souls  in  a  desolate  land,  but 
knew  he  was  waiting  there  for  his  sweetheart.  She 
had  been  pale  beneath  his  kiss  in  the  moonlight  a  short 
time  ago,  pale,  and  worn  with  suffering.  Now, 
like  the  flushing  east,  she  would  grow  rosy  with  mem- 
ory when  she  saw  him.  She  might  deny  her  love ;  she 
could  not  deny  that  kiss  of  their  meeting  spirits.  He 
was  too  tender  to  be  triumphant  that  she  had  suc- 
cumbed, and  he  had  a  panic  of  anxiety  lest  he  should 
not  be  able  always  to  make  the  future  smooth  for  her. 
While  he  waited  for  her  coming  across  the  dim  land, 
with  its  confusing  cacti,  Tiggy  curled  himself  up  on 
the  sand  near  by,  and  fell  asleep,  with  his  head  pil- 
lowed on  his  arm. 

At  last  he  saw  her  and  went  to  meet  her,  and  would 
have  taken  her  to  his  heart  had  she  not  evaded  him. 
[324] 


CHAPTER    TWENTY-THREE 

"  I  knew  you  would  find  them,"  she  cried.  Joy  had, 
for  the  while,  banished  fatigue.  Her  face  was  like  an- 
other moon  in  the  dawning  of  day,  white  with  a  kind  of 
transparency,  her  eyes  full  of  shadowed  light,  and  her 
hair  blown  about  her  head. 

She  went  down  on  her  knees  beside  Tiggy,  and  hung 
over  him  as  a  guardian  angel  might,  it  seemed  to 
Trent. 

"  Where  is  Jim  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Jim  fell  and  hurt  his  ankle.  He  is  waiting  for 
you.  I'll  take  Tiggy  home  first,  and  then  come  back 
for  him  and  you,"  he  answered. 

Tiggy  did  not  waken.  There  was  something  infi- 
nitely touching  to  them  both  in  his  confident  slumber. 
He  was  so  small  in  that  great  desert,  yet  of  such  sig- 
nificance. 

"  How  like  his  father  he  is,"  she  said,  looking  up  at 
Trent. 

"  He  is  a  mysterious  child  to  me,"  he  answered.  "  I 
cannot  tell  you  the  strange  shock  it  was  when  I  found 
them.  And  the  wolf  was  there,  too,  as  you  said." 

"  Oh,  I  never  can  forgive  myself  in  not  having 
thought  of  going  there  before,  when  I  think  of  what 
it  would  have  saved  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Lispenard.  When 
she  told  me  this  morning  that  she  dreamed  her  children 
were  with  a  wolf,  I  was  frightened,  for  I  knew  Tiggy 
had  not  told  her  of  his  friend.  I  kept  thinking 
of  it  all  day,  and  at  last  I  started  out.  Then  you 
[325] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

came —  She  looked  up  at  him  shyly,  and  even  in 

the  white  dawn  he  saw  her  rosy. 

He  gazed  down  upon  her,  thinking  how  sweet 
women  were.  They  who  won  love  were  the  first  to  ca- 
pitulate. It  was  not  in  men  to  do  so. 

Had  Lispenard's  children  died  it  would  have  been 
no  reason  to  Trent  why  he  should  yield  Yucca's  point 
that  he  live  in  Sahuaro.  He  had  experienced  one  mo- 
ment of  passionate  impulse  on  the  veranda  the  night 
before,  when  in  the  darkness  he  had  reached  out  his 
arm  for  her,  but  this  impulse  would  not  have  abided 
his  sober  later  judgment.  But  he  saw  that  for  some 
indescribably  sweet  woman's  reason  their  mutual  ter- 
rible experience  had  been  all-sufficient  for  her  to  give 
up  her  own  will. 

"  When  all  seemed  sorrowful,  and  we  thought  the 
children  dead,  did  you  kiss  me  at  last,  Yucca,  knowing 
I  needed  comfort?  "  he  asked. 

"  Yes,"  she  said ;  "  and  I,  too,  wanted  comfort." 
She  rose  from  beside  little  Tiggy  and  put  her  arms 
around  her  lover  and  bowed  her  head,  weeping  on  his 
breast.  "  It  seemed  to  me  I  could  not  bear  it  if  the 
boys  died.  I  have  known  them  ever  since  they  were 
born,  and  I  thought  of  poor  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Lispenard. 
I  wished  it  had  been  I  that  was  lost  instead." 

His  heart  stood  still  at  the  thought.  "  And  what 
of  me,  Yucca,  if  anything  had  happened  to  you?  " 
He  had  not  thought  her  slender  arms  could  have  such 
[326] 


CHAPTER    TWENTY-THREE 

power  to  cling.  He  kissed  her  shining  hair  again  and 
again ;  her  face  was  hidden  on  his  breast. 

The  mountains  were  between  them  and  the  east,  but 
the  sky  above  was  a-shimmer  with  palest  rose,  and  in 
the  distant  west  were  long  streaks  of  green.  The  des- 
ert was  shadowy  and  full  of  illusions.  The  small  bur- 
rowing animals  which  dared  to  come  out  only  at  night 
were  to  be  seen  playing  about  their  holes,  as  though 
loath  to  go  under  the  dark  earth.  Ground  owls  flut- 
tered along  the  sand;  white-winged  doves  flew  hither 
and  thither,  while  in  the  tall  cacti  in  which  they  nested 
the  woodpeckers  made  a  continual  chatter.  A  jack- 
rabbit,  with  ears  a-tremble  and  bright  eyes,  slipped 
through  the  grey  brushwood.  In  the  strange  light 
Trent's  horse,  feeding  near  by,  looked  monstrous  and 
queer. 

"  How  silent  it  is !  "  he  said  in  a  hushed  tone. 

She  raised  her  head,  wondering.  "  Don't  you  hear 
the  birds?" 

"  Yes ;  but,  somehow,  it  only  makes  the  real  silence 
seem  greater.  Oh !  my  dearest,  don't  you  see  how  aw- 
ful it  is,  this  silence  of  the  desert?  Come  back  to  the 
East  with  me,  Yucca;  I  cannot  endure  it  here,"  he 
said. 

She  slipped  away  from  him.  "  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Lis- 
penard  are  waiting  while  we  delay." 

"  Don't  leave  me,"  he  said  huskily,  putting  out  his 
hand.  In  a  moment  she  would  be  gone.  He  would 
[327] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

lose  her  in  this  land  of  dawn  and  shadow.  Then  he 
saw  that  she  was  startled,  and  it  sobered  him.  "  I 
am  light-headed  from  lack  of  sleep.  I  do  not  know 
what  I  am  doing.  Lispenard  has  heard  the  signal. 
He  knows  the  children  are  safe  now.  Let  me  have  a 
few  minutes  here  with  you." 

But  she  would  not  come  near  him  again.  Did  she 
wish  to  assume  that  all  was  as  it  had  been  before  she 
took  his  bridle-rein  and  detained  him,  and  raised  her 
face  to  be  kissed  ?  Very  well ;  he  would  fall  in  with  her 
mood.  He  saw  that  she  had  already  repented,  that  he 
must  woo  her  again  and  again.  Perhaps  he  would 
never  quite  gain  her  in  this  life,  although  he  knew  that 
she  would  marry  him.  But  she  would  always  be  more 
maiden  than  wife,  forever  slipping  from  his  embrace 
back  to  the  dreams  of  her  girlhood,  but  always  his, 
always  returning  to  him.  And  this  truth  of  their  rela- 
tion appealed  to  the  ideality  deep  beneath  the  grim- 
ness  of  his  own  nature.  It  swept  him  on  beyond  the 
bonds  of  earthly  possession  into  their  love  eternal. 
Something  of  what  was  passing  in  his  mind  must 
have  communicated  itself  to  her,  for  she  drew  nearer 
him. 

His  solemn  dreaming  was  gone.  He  caught  her  in 
his  arms  ardently.  He  would  not  kiss  her  again  if  she 
did  not  wish  it,  but,  like  a  great,  foolish  boy,  he  put 
his  cheek  to  hers. 

"  Someone  is  coming,"  she  cried,  blushing,  strug- 
[328] 


CHAPTER    TWENTY-THREE 

gling;  and  he  let  her  go,  and  turned  to  see  a  horse- 
man a  distance  off. 

"  Poor  Jim !  "  she  added.  "  There  he  is  waiting  for 
me.  Tiggy,  dear,  wake  up."  She  bent  down  and 
shook  him  gently,  and  he  sat  up,  rubbing  his  smarting 
eyes  and  smiling  drowsily  at  her. 

Trent  whistled  to  his  horse,  and  when  the  obedient 
animal  came,  lifted  the  little  fellow  on  and  then  swung 
himself  up  behind  him. 

"  Take  care  of  yourself,  my  darling,"  he  said  anx- 
iously ;  "  be  careful  going  up  the  trail.  Some  of  the 
stones  are  loose.  I  will  be  back  for  you  as  soon  as  I 
can,  and  don't  let  Jim  eat  anything  more.  He  has 
had  enough.  I  think  I  gave  Tiggy  too  much  wine. 
He  seems  about  half -seas  over."  He  shook  the  reins, 
and  glancing  back  saw  that  she  lingered  to  see 
him  go. 

The  horseman  hurrying  toward  him  proved  to  be 
the  old  mission  priest  on  his  burro.  Until  then  Trent 
had  not  known  that  he  had  been  indefatigable  in  the 
search. 

He  had  heard  the  signal,  and  came  hurrying  to  be 
of  assistance.  When  he  saw  the  actual  living  boy  with 
Trent  he  gave  a  crooning  sound  and  made  the  sign  of 
the  cross. 

"  Deo  gratias,"  he  murmured. 

When  Trent  told  him  briefly  how  the  wolf  had  saved 
the  boys  the  priest  was  amazed. 
[329] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

"  It  is  a  miracle,"  he  said.  Yet  he  made  the  sign 
of  the  cross  in  the  air. 

"  Why  do  you  do  that,  Father?  "  asked  Trent. 

"  It  is  both  evil  and  good  to  be  succored  by  a  wolf. 
Some  ill  will  happen.  The  devil  mixes  in  the  Lord's 
work.  Where  is  his  brother?  " 

Trent  laughed  at  the  superstition  of  the  priest. 
"  You  will  find  the  other  boy  up  the  Aztec  trail.  Miss 
Armes  is  with  him.  They  will  hear  you  if  you  call." 

He  rode  on  across  the  desert,  to  take  Adele's  little 
boy  home  to  her.  A  multitude  of  thoughts  crowded 
into  his  mind.  He  remembered  how  he  and  Adele  had 
trembled  toward  each  other  in  their  first  meeting  after 
so  many  years,  and  he  wondered  at  the  past  tempta- 
tion, and  was  amazed  that  he  had  not  foreseen  from 
the  first  that  he  should  love  Yucca. 

The  searchers  who  had  heard  his  signal  were  begin- 
ning to  arrive,  but  he  refused  to  be  delayed  longer, 
and  told  the  eager  riders  the  mother  must  have  the 
child  soon.  So  one  by  one  they  rode  on  to  see  Jim, 
after  Trent's  brief  assurance  that  all  was  well,  and  his 
short  explantion  of  the  wolf.  The  Indian  scouts  were 
stolid,  but  the  cowboys  insisted  on  shaking  Tiggy's 
hand,  and  every  man  of  them  fired  three  shots  from  his 
revolver,  until  his  ammunition  was  exhausted,  and 
the  air  of  the  wide,  shadowy  desert  was  startled,  and 
wild  animals  fled  frightened. 

Before  Trent  were  the  outlying  vegetable  fields  of 
[330] 


CHAPTER    TWENTY-THREE 

the  Indian  village,  with  their  protecting  hedges  of 
upturned  mesquite  roots.  He  saw  the  doors  of  their 
adobe  huts  opening  to  the  east,  after  the  custom  of 
their  people,  awaiting  their  Messiah.  The  blue  smoke 
was  rising  from  the  hearths,  and  he  noticed  a  squaw 
grinding  corn  between  two  flat  stones. 

He  rode  directly  through  the  village,  to  gain  time, 
and  the  Indian  children  ran  after  him  to  catch  a 
glimpse  of  the  boy  in  his  arms. 

He  kept  hearing  the  shots  of  the  cowboys  as  they 
galloped  toward  the  mountains,  and  it  seemed  like  a 
bursting  proclamation  of  joy. 

Lispenard,  too,  heard  those  shots,  near  and  far,  and 
he  felt  as  if  each  one  struck  to  his  heart  with  the  repeti- 
tion of  a  joy  too  great  for  him  to  bear.  Adele,  some 
hours  since,  had  lain  down  and  mercifully  fallen 
asleep,  and  he  sat  beside  her  holding  her  hand.  He 
shrank  from  waking  her  just  yet,  for  he  had  no 
strength  with  which  to  meet  her  happiness.  And  it 
was  well  that  she  should  rest.  He  had  watched  the 
glory  of  night  pale  into  the  grey  of  morning,  and  the 
roofs  of  the  university  buildings  grow  distinct  against 
the  dim  horizon.  He  saw  that  the  rosy  light  had  crept 
past  the  zenith,  and  in  the  west  were  the  cool  greens  he 
loved,  and  which  he  had  never  seen  anywhere  but  on 
the  desert. 

It  seemed  long  to  him  before  Cozzens  came  in  with 
Tiggy  in  his  arms.     Returning  from  his  own  fruitless 
[331] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

search,  the  mine  owner  had  met  Trent  as  he  was  en- 
tering the  town.  Trent  followed  him  in  now  and  shut 
and  locked  the  door  in  the  faces  of  those  neighbours 
whose  impulsive,  kindly  curiousity  would  have  led  them 
to  pour  into  the  house. 

"  Jim  is  all  right,"  said  Cozzens  huskily ;  "  hurt  his 
leg,  that's  all.  We'll  soon  have  him  here,  too." 

Tiggy  clung  resolutely  to  his  long-deferred  slum- 
bers, and  they  put  him  on  the  lounge  by  his  mother's 
side.  She  stirred,  sighing  in  her  sleep,  and  raised  her 
arm.  When  she  let  it  fall  it  lay  across  Tiggy. 

Cozzens  stepped  softly  across  the  room,  and  sat 
down  and  mopped  his  head  with  his  handkerchief.  His 
flannel  shirt  was  open  on  his  big  chest,  and  his  ruddy 
colour  gone  in  the  dust  which  covered  him.  He  wished 
to  go  to  Jim,  yet  he  could  not  bring  himself  to  leave 
Lispenard  in  these  moments  of  mutual  thanksgiving. 
His  friendship  with  this  man  would  always  mean  more 
than  a  woman's  love  to  Cozzens.  Love  to  him  was  al- 
ways more  or  less  a  self-indulgence  in  women's  flattery, 
which,  in  his  better  moods,  he  scorned.  He  was  ex- 
hausted but  content.  The  desert  had  been  outwitted 
again.  His  eyes,  bulging  with  fatigue,  rolled  in  in- 
dulgent contempt  from  Lispenard  to  Trent.  "  You 
two  was  a  pretty  pair  to  send  on  that  search,"  he 
drawled.  "  There,  I  told  you  to  look  particular  up 
that  trail,  and  you  didn't  because  you  thought  it  was 
too  near  home ! " 

[332] 


CHAPTER    TWENTY-THREE 

Lispenard  sat  still.  His  strength  was  gone.  But  he 
listened  with  a  smile  of  mingled  humour  and  pride  to 
Trent's  brief  recital  of  his  sons'  experience.  The  story 
of  the  wolf's  veritable  existence  was  amazing  to  him. 

"  They  should  found  a  city,  after  such  an  adventure, 
as  Romulus  and  Remus  did,"  he  commented. 

His  smile  passed  into  a  frown  of  pain.  He  felt  one 
of  his  terrible  heart  attacks  coming  on.  He  who  had 
once  been  so  indifferent  a  father  now  felt  that  the  joy 
of  his  children's  recovery  would  kill  him.  His  lips 
moved  dumbly,  and  he  put  out  his  hand  to  Trent,  who 
was  nearest  him.  But  Cozzens  was  at  his  side  first,  and 
had  him  at  the  open  window  in  a  minute,  with  brandy 
at  his  lips. 

"  I  guess  I  aint  nursed  this  family  all  these  years  for 
nothing,"  said  the  big  frontiersman  grimly. 

Lispenard  stood  leaning  against  him,  deathly  white, 
his  lips  blue.  His  soul  sought  to  retain  possession  of 
its  frail  earthly  tenure,  and  finally  life  all-glorious 
came  back  to  him. 

The  first  sun  rays  struck  the  university  buildings, 
and  his  poor,  strained  heart  warmed  to  the  ideals  for 
which  they  stood.  Above  all,  must  those  doors  of 
learning  send  forth  men,  rather  than  scholars — men 
like  Cozzens,  like  Trent. 

The  world  should  learn  to  what  a  race  the  beautiful 
desert  could  give  birth ! 

He  turned  to  his  friend  with  the  smile  which  made 
[333] 


THE    VOICE    IN    THE    DESERT 

Cozzens  worship  him.  "  My  dear  fellow,"  he  said 
faintly,  "  we  must  keep  the  spirit  fresh  in  the  hearts  of 
our  young  men.  They  must  love  the  adventure  of 
life." 

His  hand  tightened  on  Cozzens's  sleeve,  and  he 
swayed. 

Lispenard  had  gone  to  seek  that  fuller  adventure  of 
the  spirit  in  whose  existence  he  so  fondly  believed. 


THE    END. 


[334] 


Author  of  "The  Pedagogues" 

THE  TRIUMPH 

r 

THE  TRIUMPH  has  fire  and  pathos  and 
romance  and  exhilarating  humor.  It  is  a  cap- 
ital story  that  will  keep  a  reader's  interest  from 
the  first  appearance  of  its  hero,  the  young  doc- 
tor Neal  Robeson,  to  his  final  triumph — his 
triumph  over  himself  and  over  the  lawless,  tur- 
bulent oil-drillers,  his  success  in  his  profession 
and  in  his  love  affair.  It  displays  a  delightful 
appreciation  of  the  essential  points  of  typical 
American  characters,  a  happy  outlook  on  every- 
day life,  a  vigorous  story-telling  ability  working 
in  material  that  is  thrilling  in  interest,  in  a  set- 
ting that  is  picturesque  and  unusual.  The 
action  takes  place  in  a  little  western  Pennsyl- 
vania village  at  the  time  of  the  oil  fever,  and  a 
better  situation  can  scarcely  be  found.  Mr. 
Pier's  account  of  the  fight  between  the  out- 
raged villagers  and  the  oil-drillers  around  a 
roaring,  blazing  gas  well  is  a  masterpiece  of 
story  telling. 

Illustrations  by  W.  D.  Stevens 
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Sfatnes  defter  Htnn 


Author  of  "The  Second  Generation" 

THE  CHAMELEON 

r 

A  HE  author  uses  as  his  theme  that  trait  in 
human  nature  which  leads  men  and  women  to 
seek  always  the  lime  light,  to  endeavor  always 
to  be  protagonists  even  at  the  expense  of  the 
truth.  His  book  is  a  study  of  that  most  inter- 
esting and  pertinent  type  in  modern  life,  the 
sentimentalist,  the  man  whose  emotions  are 
interesting  to  him  merely  as  a  matter  of  experi- 
ence, and  shows  the  development  of  such  a 
character  when  he  comes  into  contact  with 
normal  people.  The  action  of  the  novel  passes 
in  a  college  town  and  the  hero  comes  to  his 
grief  through  his  attempt  to  increase  his  ap- 
pearance of  importance  by  betraying  a  secret. 
His  love  for  his  wife  is,  however,  his  saving 
sincerity  and  through  it  the  story  is  brought  to 
a  happy  ending. 

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jF.  3L  Jlason 


Author  of  "  To  the  End  of  the  Trail  " 

THE  BLUE  GOOSE 

:    r 

J_  HE  life  of  the  miner,  with  its  hours  of  wild 
living  above  ground,  the  dominating  influence 
of  the  greed  for  gold,  and  the  reckless  gambling 
spirit  that  is  its  very  basis  offers  grateful  mate- 
rial to  the  teller  of  stories.  Mr.  Nason  has 
taken  full  advantage  of  the  opportunity  and  of 
his  intimate  knowledge.  He  has  written  a  tale 
of  cunning  and  villany  thwarted  by  dogged 
honesty,  in  which  a  mine  superintendent  is  in 
conflict  with  his  thieving  and  vicious  employees. 
The  sweetness  and  charm  of  an  unspoiled,  win- 
some girl  brighten  the  story.  To  her  steadfast, 
romantic  love  for  the  superintendent  is  due  his 
final  triumph. 

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&rnoiti  Bennett 


Author  of  "The  Great  Babylon  Hotel" 

ANNA  OF  THE  FIVE  TOWNS 

r 

±  ROBABLY  no  story  of  the  year  is  so  simply 
and  yet  so  artistically  told  as  this  one.  It 
portrays  the  development  of  a  sweet  and  nat- 
ural girl's  character,  amid  a  community  of  strict 
Wesleyan  Methodists  in  a  Staffordshire  town. 
How  her  upright  nature  progresses  with  con- 
stant rebellions  against  the  hypocrisy  and  cant 
of  the  religionists,  by  whom  she  is  surrounded, 
is  brought  out  by  the  author  faithfully  and 
with  great  delicacy  of  insight.  Many  will  love 
Anna,  and  not  a  few  will  find  something  in  her 
to  suggest  "Tess  of  the  Durbervilles."  The 
plot  is  extremely  simple,  but  the  reader  will 
find  a  surprise  in  the  last  chapters. 

The  English  letter  from  W.  L.  Alden,  in  the  New  York 

Times  Review  says : 

"It  will  be  promptly  recognized  by  the  critics  whose 

opinion  is  worth  something  as  the  most  artistic  story  of  the 

year." 

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33? 


Author  of  " Every  One  His  Own  Way" 

TRUE    LOVE 

A  Comedy  of  the  Affections 

r 

JTERE  commonplace,  every-day,  ordinary 
people  tread  the  boards.  The  characters  whom 
Miss  Wyatt  presents  are  not  genuises,  or  heroes, 
or  heroines  of  romance,  but  commonplace 
persons  with  commonplace  tricks  and  common- 
place manners  and  emotions.  They  do  roman- 
tic things  without  a  sense  of  romance  in  them, 
but  weave  their  commonplace  doings  into  a 
story  of  great  human  interest  that  the  reader 
will  find  far  from  commonplace.  The  vein  of 
humorous  satire,  keen,  subtle  and  refined,  per- 
meating the  story  and  the  characterization,  sets 
this  work  of  Miss  Wyatt's  in  a  class  by  itself. 

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>eumas 


Author  of  "  Through  the  Turf  Smoke  " 

"A  LAD  OF  THE  O'FRIEL'S" 


J.  HIS  is  a  story  of  Donegal  ways  and  customs ; 
full  of  the  spirit  of  Irish  life.  The  main  char- 
acter is  a  dreaming  and  poetic  boy  who  takes 
joy  in  all  the  stories  and  superstitions  of  his 
people,  and  his  experience  and  life  are  thus 
made  to  reflect  all  the  essential  qualities  of  the 
life  of  his  country.  Many  characters  in  the 
book  will  make  warm  places  for  themselves  in 
the  heart  of  the  reader. 


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.  3R.  Crockett 


Author  of  "  The  Banner  of  Blue,"  "  The  Firebrand  " 

FLOWER  O'  THE  CORN 

r 

MR.  CROCKETT  has  made  an  interesting 
novel  of  romance  and  intrigue.  He  has  chosen 
a  little  town  in  the  south  of  France,  high  up 
in  the  mountains,  as  the  scene  for  his  drama. 
The  plot  deals  with  a  group  of  Calvinists  who 
have  been  driven  from  Belgium  into  southern 
France,  where  they  are  besieged  in  their  moun- 
tain fastness  by  the  French  troops.  A  number 
of  historical  characters  figure  in  the  book, 
among  them  Madame  de  Maintenon. 
"  Flower  o'  the  Corn  "  is  probably  one  of  Mr. 
Crockett's  most  delightful  women  characters. 
The  book  is  notable  for  its  fine  descriptions. 

Cloth,  12mo  $1.50 


Co* 


ffi.  f  rnlap  Captor 


Author  of  "  The  House  of  the  Wizard  " 

THE  REBELLION  OF  THE 
PRINCESS 

r 

A.  BOOK  that  is  a  story,  and  never  loses  the 
quick,  on-rushing,  inevitable  quality  of  a  story 
from  the  first  page  to  the  last.  Stirring, 
exciting,  romantic,  satisfying  all  the  essential 
requirements  of  a  novel.  The  scene  is  laid  in 
Moscow  at  the  time  of  the  election  of  Peter  the 
Great,  when  the  intrigues  of  rival  parties  over- 
turned the  existing  government,  and  the  meet- 
ing of  the  National  Guard  made  the  city  the 
scene  of  a  hideous  riot.  It  resembles  in  some 
points  Miss  Taylor's  successful  first  story,  "On 
the  Red  Staircase,"  especially  in  the  date,  the 
principal  scenes  and  the  fact  that  the  hero  is  a 
French  nobleman. 

Cloth,  12mo  $1.50 


&  Co, 


fwn  jf.  BSullocfe 


Author  of  "  The  Barrys,"  "  Irish  Pastorals  " 

THE  SQUIREEN 

r 

MR.  BULLOCK  takes  us  into  the  North  of 
Ireland  among  North-of-Ireland  people.  His 
story  is  dominated  by  one  remarkable  character, 
whose  progress  towards  the  subjugation  of  his 
own  temperament  we  cannot  help  but  watch 
with  interest.  He  is  swept  from  one  thing  to 
another,  first  by  his  dare-devil,  roistering  spirit, 
then  by  his  mood  of  deep  repentance,  through 
love  and  marriage,  through  quarrels  and  sepa- 
ration from  his  wife,  tc  a  reconciliation  at  the 
point  of  death,  to  a  return  to  health,  and 
through  the  domination  of  the  devil  in  him, 
finally  to  death.  It  is  a  strong,  convincing 
novel  suggesting,  somewhat,  "  The  House  with 
the  Green  Shutters."  What  that  book  did  for 
the  Scotland  of  Ian  Maclaren  and  Barrie,  "  The 
Squireen  "  will  do  for  Ireland. 

Cloth,  12mo  $1.50 


.,  p&iiiipg  &  Co* 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE 
GREEN  SHUTTERS 

r 

A.  STORY  remarkable  for  its  power,  remark- 
able for  its  originality,  and  remarkable  for  its  suc- 
cess. The  unique  masterpiece  of  an  unfortunate 
young  author,  who  died  without  knowing  the 
unstinted  praise  his  work  was  to  receive.  The 
book  portrays  with  striking  realism  a  phase  of 
Scottish  life  and  character  new  to  most  novel- 
readers.  John  Gourlay,  the  chief  personage  in 
the  drama,  inhabitant  of  the  "  House  With 
the  Green  Shutters  "  and  master  of  the  village 
destinies,  looms  up  as  the  personification  of  the 
brute  force  that  dominates.  He  stands  apart 
from  all  characters  in  fiction.  In  the  broad 
treatment  and  the  relentless  sweep  of  its  trage- 
dy, the  book  suggests  the  work  of  Dumas. 

"  If  a  more  powerful  story  than  this  has  been  written  in 
recent  years  we  have  not  seen  it.  It  must  take  first 
honors  among  the  novels  of  the  day." 

—  Philadelphia  Item. 

"  One  of  the  most  powerful  books  we  have  seen  for  a 
long  time,  and  it  marks  the  advent  of  a  valuable  writer." 

—  New  York  Press. 

$1.50 


Jftcdurt,  $$(Uip0  &  Co* 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


REC'D  LD-URL 

JAN     6  1982 


315 


II III II II II I  III  II  MM  II 

i  ill  9 II  n  INI  ii  run  n 

3   1158  00707  6267 


A«'«l  "III  Hill  I 
000058  198 


